The Secret Life of a Slummy Mummy

by Fiona Neill

  ‘Are you all right?’ I asked her, gripping her elbow until she put down the steaming iron.

  ‘It’s not easy, Lucy,’ she said, sniffing delicately.

  ‘Why are you ironing these clothes?’ I asked gently.

  ‘I couldn’t possibly send them to the charity shop with creases,’ she said, looking at me with a shocked expression on her face. ‘If I did that, the whole thing would unravel.’

  Petra continued to wash sheets once a week through that dark period. Her underwear was always ironed. And the freezer remained filled with home-baked food, albeit in small, sad tinfoil portions for one person instead of two. They were rarely eaten.

  I hold on to this image to engender feelings of sympathy towards her that were seriously compromised when I opened my Christmas present late last night. She had bought both my mother and me a copy of What Not to Wear by Trinny and Susannah, handing them over with great excitement. ‘I thought I should give these to you now, in case they come in handy over the festive period,’ she said. My mother looked at the book blankly. Apart from the news, she hasn’t watched much television since the early 1980s. Trinny and Susannah have not registered on her radar.

  My mother strides over from the fridge. She has clearly not yet examined the book, because her Christmas look consists of a curious ensemble involving a skirt with a broken hem that hangs down at the back, and a petticoat visible both from the neckline of her unbuttoned shirt and the uneven hemline. Her shirt, a striped number that I remember her wearing when I still lived at home, is done up wrong. Everything is lopsided.

  More carthorse than thoroughbred, I think to myself, comparing her unfavourably with Petra. My mother has even applied make-up. But she is out of practice and probably using products bought more than a decade ago. The foundation is thick and unctuous and nestles in the wrinkles on her forehead and around her eyes, so that if she laughs a small stream oozes out. Her lips are painted in a strong orange colour, her cheeks berry-red with rouge.

  My mother’s insouciant attitude to her personal appearance used to be an endearing eccentricity. Now she just looks dishevelled and old. I feel a sudden need to protect her from unforgiving eyes. This is a sentiment new to me and, for the first time, I realise that the balance in our relationship is shifting and that I will be called upon to take more and more responsibility. I start to feel breathless with the weight of what lies ahead.

  My feelings towards my mother are fairly straightforward because she is generally uncomplicated. There is no emotional blackmail. No passive aggressive behaviour. No criticism of my parenting techniques, beyond the inevitable disbelief that her daughter chose to disengage from her career. Her belief system has barely evolved since I was a child, and over the years her strong opinions have become comforting in their predictability. Most belong to a different era. Her feminism is cast from the Betty Friedan mould. Her Labour party allegiance more Neil Kinnock than Tony Blair. I know that she hoped that I would grow up with my compass set along the same lines, but nothing has ever seemed certain to me. I still find it too easy to see the other person’s point of view. To believe anything too much seems almost reckless. Her fear that having children might shackle her to the kitchen and jeopardise her hard-won freedoms meant that she spent much of our childhood running away from us. As though everything would be fine as long as she kept moving. She feared giving in to maternal urges, in case they might prove irresistible. She was often physically around, it was just that her mind was engaged elsewhere, mostly in some book or other. My brother blames his inability to form long-term relationships on this emotional distance.

  ‘You’re behaving like someone in therapy, blaming your parents for your own inadequacies, instead of taking responsibility for your own destiny,’ I told him during our most recent argument about this, shortly after he had finished his last two-year relationship.

  ‘If I’m behaving like someone in therapy, that might be because I am in therapy,’ he said, because psychologists have to learn to take it as well as give it. ‘You just haven’t reached the level of consciousness required to realise that our childhood was blighted.’

  ‘All parents are flawed,’ I told him. ‘There is no such thing as a perfect parent. What parents should aim for is being good enough.’

  ‘You’ve been reading Winnicott,’ he said accusingly.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ I said.

  ‘That is Winnicott’s theory,’ he said. ‘The good-enough mother . . . starts off with an almost complete adaptation to her infant’s needs, and as time proceeds she adapts less and less completely, gradually, according to the infant’s growing ability to deal with her failure.’

  ‘Well, good on Winnicott then,’ I said. ‘It’s people like you who have undermined mothers. You have created a chain of command with experts at the top and parents at the bottom. That’s why those poor women got locked away in prison, falsely accused of killing their babies, on the basis of flawed evidence from a scientist they had never met. It’s the Guantanamo approach to mothers, you’re guilty unless you can prove your innocence.’

  Now, I’m not denying that my mother has flaws. But there was nothing, even as a teenager, that I couldn’t have discussed with her if I had chosen. She was unjudgemental and practical. Unlike Tom’s family, where I struggled to decipher conversations and interpret looks like someone on their first French exchange, finally realising after several years that things that were said were often the opposite of what was meant, there was little hidden in ours. There were long, rowdy discussions late into the night and half-drunk bottles of wine that were cleaned up the following morning. Most arguments were inconclusive, and there was a lot of verbal incontinence, mostly on my mother’s part, because my father had a more evidence-based, less instinctive approach to debate, but at least everything was up for discussion. There was nothing repressed. My brother is less forgiving of our childhood but I think that is because I understand what women are up against.

  ‘Perhaps you would like to try?’ I suddenly hear Petra say in a frosty tone. She is handing the wooden spoon to my mother, waving it in front of her face like a sword. The icing on the spoon is set as hard as the expression on Petra’s face. She does up the top button of her cardigan. The battle lines are drawn.

  My mother, never one to turn down a challenge, struggles to get the white mass to shift, using her not inconsiderable strength. It moves slightly, and in this subtle movement she finds vindication, but it is one great bowl-shaped mass, with the consistency and form of a Viking helmet. If the willpower of my mother cannot shift the icing, then nothing short of an ice pick will.

  ‘I’m going to slice it in half and put the bottom bit on top of the cake,’ my mother says defiantly, pointing towards the knife drawer. I open it. I want her to win this battle, because the odds are stacked against her. The knife drawer is stiff and cumbersome to open and when I finally manage to pull it out, there are many things inside but no sharp knife.

  ‘We haven’t had one of those since the early eighties,’ my father says unhelpfully, looking at me, then down at the paper again, blissfully unaware of the drama unfolding at his kitchen table. Petra leans over my shoulder and peers in the drawer. I can see her dissecting the contents. Old bills, stray playing cards, corks, plastic lids, an obituary cut out from the Guardian, rusty icing nozzles in various sizes, bits of string in different colours, grains of rice, porridge oats and other unidentifiable debris that has found its way in over the years. Outside, the sheep bleat loudly as if discussing this display. They sense the build-up of dramatic tension.

  ‘Would you like me to sort this out?’ Petra asks eagerly. Without waiting for an answer, she takes out the drawer and immediately starts the process. ‘How are the children going to get the reindeer and Father Christmas to stand up on the icing? It’s set hard as concrete, no one will be able to bite through it,’ she says, efficiently lining up objects into intelligible categories. ‘Why don’t you let me start from scratch?�
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  ‘Because this is the way that I have always done it,’ says my mother fiercely.

  I doubt whether she has ever made icing before, and it is bewildering to me why she engages in this pretence. It is simply not her area of expertise and both women would be happier if Petra was left to take over everything relating to Christmas food.

  ‘Shall I get on with the roast potatoes?’ asks Petra, who, at the moment, has the diplomatic upper hand. ‘I think you’ll find that if you sprinkle them with semolina rather than flour before you put them in the oven, they will have a crunchier edge.’

  She is moving towards the fruit bowl and I know even before she reaches her destination that she will be unable to contain herself from throwing away the mouldy apple that I spot on the top.

  My mother goes into the larder that leads off the back of the kitchen and I follow close behind.

  ‘B is for bastards,’ she seethes, and I shut the door to have one of those hold-it-together conversations.

  ‘This is a difficult time for them,’ I explain. ‘The more anxious they are, the more they tidy up. Just try and enjoy it. Don’t take it personally. Petra prides herself on her domestic capabilities, they are integral to her sense of self. You have many other things in your life, so be generous.’

  ‘It’s a difficult time for me, having both of them here at once,’ she says, sitting down on a stool and accidentally setting off a mousetrap with the tip of her shoe. ‘I thought the decision to move to Morocco might have loosened her up. I can’t believe that she can be engaged in something so impetuous and still be obsessing about the consistency of icing at the same time.’

  ‘She draws comfort from the repetition of these rituals, just as you do from delivering that introductory lecture on D. H. Lawrence to first-year students every year and seeing the expression on their faces when you say “cunt”,’ I say. ‘I think it is because she is moving to Morocco that you want her to get worked up over the icing. So that she conforms to your expectations. I think that you are resentful of this late blush of freedom in Petra’s life, so you are trying to force her back into her corner. Anyway, she’s got a point about the icing.’

  ‘Why would I be jealous?’ she says. I am surprised at her use of adjective, because I hadn’t actually considered that my mother might be envious of Petra’s existence.

  ‘Because for the first time since you have known her, she is doing something more exciting than you,’ I say. ‘You’re not used to her taking centre stage.’

  This explanation seems to satisfy her, and I sense her moving on to new territory.

  ‘So, Lucy, when are you going to get a proper job?’ she asks.

  ‘I have a proper job,’ I say. ‘Looking after children is a proper job.’

  ‘It is unpaid hard labour,’ she says.

  ‘I couldn’t agree with you more,’ I say. ‘But I would have thought, given your political leanings, that you would be the last person to judge a person’s worth based on the size of their pay packet. Just because I don’t earn any money doesn’t mean what I’m doing has no value.’

  ‘I can’t believe that a daughter of mine has chosen to be a housewife,’ she says, her mouth twisting as though the word has a bitter taste.

  ‘Actually, Mum, part of the problem lies with feminists like you, because in overemphasising the importance of women working, you totally devalued domestic life,’ I say. ‘In fact, you’re indirectly responsible for the current schism between working and non-working mothers.’

  She looks a little taken aback.

  ‘Fred is at nursery now, you must have more time on your hands,’ she persists.

  ‘But then there’s the holidays,’ I say. ‘Do you know how much money I would have to earn to pay for childcare?’ She ignores that argument.

  ‘What I mean is, when are you going to do something that involves using your brain?’ she says.

  ‘Well, that’s a different question. I do use my brain, only in a less obvious more lateral way,’ I say. ‘Anyway, it’s not that I left work, work left me. If I could find something part-time that was compatible with having children, I would do it.’

  ‘It’s such a waste,’ she says, warming up to the subject with familiar zeal.

  ‘Did you know that mothers with children who are out of the workforce for more than five years are less employable than East European immigrants who can’t speak English?’ I say. ‘Didn’t you see that in the paper last week? No one wants to give us jobs, at least not the kind that I would enjoy. There’s a dilemma for you and your feminist cronies to debate in the pub.’

  ‘But do you feel fulfilled, Lucy?’ she persists. ‘Is it satisfying?’

  One of my mother’s most endearing traits is her infinite curiosity about what motivates people, especially if their choices are at odds with her own. Her persistent line of questioning might appear critical, especially since she is a woman of strong opinions, but there is a childlike innocence to her approach, an unquenchable desire to really understand where someone else is coming from.

  ‘At the end of the day, I often feel as though I have achieved nothing,’ I say to her. ‘A successful day consists of maintaining the status quo. I have managed to get three children to and from school and nursery without significant mishap. I have cooked three meals, bathed three children, and read them all bedtime stories. When I compare that to what I was doing before, it seems absurd, especially since I don’t seem to get any better at it.’

  ‘But you are at ease with your children. I don’t think I ever felt that,’ she sighs.

  Something in my pocket starts to beep.

  ‘What’s that?’ says my mother suspiciously.

  ‘Joe’s Tamagotchi,’ I say, taking out my son’s electronic pet and pressing a few buttons. ‘It needs feeding. I promised him I would look after it while he watches The Sound of Music.’

  In the corner of the larder I spot a large shape covered with tin foil.

  ‘What’s that?’ I ask her.

  ‘Oh God, it’s the turkey, I’ve been so distracted by that woman that I’ve forgotten to put it in the oven,’ she says, removing the foil to reveal the huge, loose-skinned, bald bird beneath. Its colour and texture match her arms. ‘She’s won again.’

  ‘Why do you get so competitive with Petra?’ I ask wondrously. ‘Your culinary disasters are usually feted. It’s not as though anyone has any expectation of anything else.’

  ‘It’s difficult to explain,’ she says. ‘I suppose I measure myself against her and find myself lacking as a homemaker. Then I wonder if I did the right thing by my children.’

  ‘Of course you did,’ I say. ‘We’re no more than averagely fucked up. In fact, we’re slightly less than averagely fucked up. That’s a good outcome. Average is good. It prevents extremes.’

  The door opens and Mark wanders in. He is eating a bag of crisps. ‘I’m anticipating a late lunch,’ he says.

  ‘More criticism,’ says my mother, flouncing out of the larder and back into the kitchen carrying the turkey.

  Mark sits down in the chair that my mother has vacated and immediately steps on another mousetrap.

  ‘Shit. That hurt,’ he says, rubbing his big toe. He is wearing a pair of thick hand-knitted socks that Petra made him for Christmas. The trap hangs limply at the end.

  ‘How are you, Lucy?’ Mark asks. ‘I’ve hardly had a moment to talk to you properly. You seem a little preoccupied,’ he says, taking off his sock to rub his toe.

  ‘Is that your professional assessment?’ I ask him. ‘Or are you simply trying to deflect attention to avoid any difficult questions about the whereabouts of your girlfriend and your lack of Christmas presents?’

  ‘They got left in London,’ he says looking guilty.

  ‘The presents or the girlfriend?’ I ask.

  ‘Both,’ he says. ‘But not in the same place. And that is significant. I got some trashy stuff for the boys at the service station. Anyway, let’s not talk about me.’

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��But I’m sure your stories are more interesting than mine,’ I say.

  ‘Do you want me to tell you what I think about Joe?’ he asks suddenly. ‘I promise I’m not trying to avoid awkward issues. I just thought that might be what you are worrying about.’

  ‘It’s one of a multitude of things on my mind,’ I say, softening. Mark has been an unerringly good and faithful uncle to our children. ‘Tell me what you think.’

  ‘I think that although he is displaying certain neurotic tendencies, there is little of the repetition and ritual that is the classic manifestation of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder,’ Mark says.

  ‘But what about all the worry during The Sound of Music and the shrinking?’ I ask.

  ‘That is a symptom of anxiety, of a deep-seated desire for things to stay the same, for predictability and routine in his life,’ says Mark. He has got up from the seat and is wandering around the larder, lifting the lids off various containers and peering inside to see what lurks within. ‘The shrinking is more complicated. I think it has something to do with a desire to retreat from the world to a place where everything is safe and makes sense. He’s an unusually sensitive child. He’ll probably end up doing something creative.’

  ‘You don’t think it’s my fault? That my chaos has made him neurotic?’ I ask.

  ‘No, better to veer on the side of chaos than be too controlling,’ he says. ‘Behind an anxious child there often lurks a neurotic parent. Being a good mother depends on defining the right dose of devotion. Too little and the child wilts, too much and it is stifled.’

  ‘So you don’t think I need to go and see someone?’ I ask.

  ‘Basically, I think you need to accept that he is his father’s son,’ he says.

  Mark is busy throwing out a maggot-infested container of rice that he has found on a shelf. Something beeps in my pocket again and I get out the Tamagotchi. But it is asleep, so I pull out my mobile phone from the back pocket of my jeans to check my messages and am shocked to see that there are three from Robert Bass, all sent much earlier this morning. ‘Want sex. Where are u?’ they all read.