Mother's Story

by Amanda Prowse

  Matthew stared at her open-mouthed as if figuring out what to say next. There was a sudden thunderclap overhead. Jessica jumped. She hated thunder. Matthew ran back round to the passenger side of the car. He pulled the bottle of champagne from the bag and held it up to the window.

  ‘You didn’t imagine the whole thing. But I bought this for you, you idiot.’ He smiled.

  Jessica felt her stomach bunch, still unused to these extravagant gestures.

  ‘Why don’t you give it to Jenny!’ She tried to halt the smile that threatened – he had bought her champagne!

  ‘Jenny? No! You’ve got the wrong end of the stick.’ Matthew shook his head and placed the bottle on the ground. ‘If you’re not going to let me in, then just open this window a little so you can hear me properly. Please. I hate having to shout, and people are watching,’ he yelled.

  ‘I don’t care who’s watching!’ she shouted back, which was a lie. She cared a lot. She rolled Ross’s passenger window down by two inches.

  Matthew bent down and spoke through the gap. ‘Thank you for opening the window.’ He smiled. ‘I bought champagne because we are celebrating; you and I. Jenny threw her arms around my neck because she knows we are celebrating. And the reason she knows is because she has spoken to Jake, who couldn’t keep a bloody secret if his life depended on it.’

  ‘What are we celebrating?’ Jessica looked across at her rain-soaked, bedraggled boyfriend as he clung to the window, his fingers gripping the rim of the glass in a monkey-like pose, his body pressed against the side of his car in the driving rain. She watched as he arched his body backwards and reached into his wet jeans pocket. Using two fingers, he pulled out a small square red box.

  Jessica flung her hand over her mouth as her tears finally found their release. Oh my God! This is it!

  Matthew suddenly dipped down until all that was visible were his head and shoulders. He shook his head to rid his eyes of the rain. Jessica wound down the window fully, caring little that Ross’s upholstery was getting a good soaking. Matthew pushed his forearms into the car and, leaning through the open window, carefully opened the little red box that rested in the centre of his palm. In it nestled his grandmother’s Art Deco engagement ring. The square emerald was flanked by two baguette-shaped diamonds and the whole beautiful composition sat on a worn platinum band. It was stunning. It was the ring she had admired when last at his parents’ house. Now she knew why it had been sitting there on the mantelpiece, not waiting to be cleaned, as his mother had burst out, but waiting to be collected, by Matthew, in preparation for this moment. Although being locked out of the car on a rainy Tuesday in the car park had probably not figured in his plans.

  ‘Jessica Rose Maxwell…’ Matthew paused to compose himself. He gave a small cough and started again, seemingly unaffected by the rain that continued to plaster his hair to his face and his clothes to his body. ‘Jessica Rose Maxwell, I love you. Even though you drive me crazy and are undoubtedly the most bonkers person I know. You are also the funniest and the most beautiful. I can’t stand the idea of not spending every night with you or not seeing your face on the pillow next to mine when I wake up. I want you to have my babies. And I can’t imagine any other future than one with you. I love you.’ He pushed the box further into the centre of the car until his arm was fully outstretched. ‘Will you marry me?’

  Jessica opened Ross’s door and tried to jump out, but was anchored by the seatbelt that had tightened across her chest. She laughed as she waited a second and then pushed the button for release. Slipping from the car, she ran through the downpour, edging around the bonnet and into Matthew’s arms.

  ‘This is just what I have always dreamt of, being proposed to in Sainsbury’s car park!’ She kissed him hard on the mouth. ‘I love you too!’

  ‘Is that a yes, then, Ms Maxwell?’

  ‘Yes! It’s a yes! Of course it’s a yes!’ Jessica jumped up and down in the rain until she too was soaking wet. She threw her arms wide. ‘I’m getting married!’ she shouted at the elderly man in an oversized high-visibility jacket and peaked cap who was collecting stray trollies in the car park.

  ‘Congratulations!’ he shouted back through the haze of droplets, and waved.

  Jessica leapt into Matthew’s arms; luckily he was used to this and caught her with ease.

  ‘I’m sorry about your French stick.’ She kissed him again.

  ‘Jess, if that’s the worst thing we have to contend with in our married life, then I’d say we are going to be just fine.’

  Matthew lifted her higher above his waist and held her firmly, with her bottom resting in his hands, as she wrapped her legs around his torso.

  ‘I love you, Matthew.’

  ‘I love you too.’ He smiled.

  Jessica placed the flat of her palm against his cheek, her expression deadly serious. ‘No, you don’t understand. I love you more than I knew I could ever love anyone. I love you more than I will ever love another person in the whole wide world and I always, always will. The thought of you not loving me…’ She drew breath as if she’d been struck.

  ‘Jess, my Jess. There is nothing you can do, nothing that would make me stop loving you.’

  She buried her head in his shoulder. They would wake tomorrow knowing that they were going to be husband and wife, forever.

  One year on, Jessica studied the plain platinum wedding band that now sat next to her engagement ring, on the third finger of her left hand. She splayed her fingers, admiring the new addition.

  Matthew’s father once again tapped the fork against the glass. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, could I please ask you to be seated for the speeches.’ Jessica caught the way Margaret flashed her husband a look, as if to say, ‘Remember, short and sweet, this isn’t your floor show.’ As was his habit, he jutted his chin, shot his cuffs and ignored her.

  Matthew’s university chums threw back the shots they had lined up on the starched white linen tablecloth, knowing that time was of the essence. Who wanted to listen to speeches sober? Led, as ever, by Jake, they had long since shed their suit jackets and morning coats; their ties were slackened or absent, their sleeves unevenly rolled.

  At twenty-three, Matthew was the first of the gang to marry and this catapulted him into the adult world. They saw it as their duty to both celebrate and mourn the fact that one them had been snared. Their girlfriends exchanged glances; the group of pretty plus-ones had little in common other than that their respective partners had all done very well at A-level, had read law at Nottingham University and were now sitting at the Pissheads and Reprobates table in this fancy tent in the Buckinghamshire countryside.

  One of the Pissheads had won an enviable internship, the Chief Reprobate was studying for his Bar exams and at least two of the others were earning mega-bucks in the City, but when the group reassembled, they threw off their career labels and behaved like the twenty-three-year-olds they were. Getting plastered, making crude jokes and trying to get laid became the order of the day.

  Matthew’s colleagues – or those in the Shark Pool, as the sign on their table tagged them – gripped their glasses of Pinot Grigio Grand Cru and Châteauneuf-du-Pape, carefully chosen to accompany the fish and venison. Their signet rings made pleasing clinks against the sides of the glasses. The practising lawyers eyed the young bucks on the neighbouring table with a mixture of disapproval and envy.

  Anthony Deane stood at the top table and pulled his cream silk waistcoat down a fraction, trying to hide the bulge of good living that crept over his waistband with alarming speed year on year. He coughed and lifted his chin. ‘It’s wonderful to be able to host you all here today in celebration of the marriage of our son Matthew to the delightful Jessica. I would now like to hand the floor over to Jessica’s father, Roger.’

  Jessica didn’t think of him as her father, he was Dad, her dad. A loud ‘woohoo!’ came from the back of the marquee. Anthony raised his glass. ‘Well thank you, that man. One woohoo already and we are not even close to the finale �
� this bodes very well.’ There was a ripple of laughter. Anthony sat and folded his hands across his stomach as all eyes turned to Roger Maxwell.

  Jessica watched her dad stand. He smoothed his tie against his chest, removed his glasses from the case that usually sat on the arm of his favourite chair, and placed them on his nose. He pulled the folded sheets of A4 paper from his pocket. In no particular hurry, he coughed to clear his throat. His words when they came were delivered clearly and sincerely. Jessica had to stop herself rushing over and holding him close. She felt a swell of affection and gratitude towards this man during his first ever public speech. She knew how nervous he was and loved that he didn’t try to refine his Essex accent, proud of his roots and what he had achieved for his family with nothing more than hard graft and an eye for an opportunity.

  Roger looked up at the assembled guests. ‘I don’t think I can go any further without mentioning quite how beautiful my daughter looks today.’ This prompted a round of applause, in response to which, Jessica placed her head in her hands and tried to hide. Matthew pulled her hands from her face and encouraged her to stand. She felt the scarlet stain of pleased embarrassment creep up her neck as she put her hands on her impossibly small waist and gave a half turn to show off her dress to its full advantage. The tiny crystals sewn into the delicate cream lace of her fitted bodice sparkled in the candlelight. She gave an awkward bow before resuming her place next to her husband and gripping his hand on the tabletop. Her action elicited numerous wolf whistles and cheers and to try and quieten her racing pulse, Jessica laid her manicured hand against her chest.

  Roger paused to let the ruckus die down; he was handling the speech like a pro. ‘I remember the quiet Saturday night we were watching the telly when Jessica came home and told her mum and me that she had met a man at a barbecue who had been so sloshed that he called her Joanna all night. I didn’t think much of it, but three months later young Matthew was knocking at my door informing me of his decision to propose to Jessica! I asked if he meant Joanna – I think that broke the ice a little.’

  More laughter rippled across the room.

  Matthew nodded; it had.

  ‘The word whirlwind was invented for these two. My first question to Matt was, quite naturally, are you mad, son?’

  ‘Oh, Roger!’ wailed Jessica’s mother, Coral. Then she laughed with her hand covering her mouth.

  ‘My second question was, of course, who do you support?’

  ‘Queens Park bloody Rangers!’ came the shout from the Pissheads and Reprobates.

  ‘Yes,’ Roger answered, pointing at the rowdy table, ‘and as a lifelong Hammers fan, let me tell you, those clearly weren’t the words I wanted to hear. But it could have been so much worse. He might have been a Millwall fan or, worse still, been one of those blokes who only likes rugby!’

  The room erupted into laughter. Anthony’s passion for rugby was well known. Jessica beamed at her dad. He was doing great.

  ‘I think this topic will only rear its ugly head if we are ever blessed with a grandson, when I will be charging up that maternity ward with a claret and blue strip. No arguments there, boy.’

  ‘Ooooh! Harsh!’ Matthew’s friends heckled from afar.

  Roger reached for his glass. ‘But all joking aside, there is no finer bloke to whom we could entrust the care of our child. We are so proud of our beautiful girl, our clever girl, and an artist no less. We love all that she is and all that she will be. It feels like only moments ago that she was holding my fingers and taking her first steps along the path in our garden.’ He paused and swallowed the lump in his throat. ‘From the very first moment I held you in my arms, Jessica Rose, I loved you and I will love you until my last breath. I know that Danny is looking down on you today and probably laughing at his old man done up like a kipper!’ He plucked at his tie. ‘Your mum and I wish you both every bit of happiness in the world. And if we can give you one bit of advice, it’s this: nobody’s life is perfect. Be patient on the dark days, because they pass.’ The room was silent. ‘No matter how dark it gets, sit it out. Even if you think you are alone, when the light comes back, if you are lucky, you’ll look to your right and realise that the person you love was sat by your side, holding your hand, though you might not have seen them.’ He stole a glance at his wife and smiled. Then he raised his glass. ‘To Jess and Matt.’ He took a sip and everyone followed his lead.

  Matthew raised his wife’s knuckles knitted against his own and kissed them. He would give her the ocean in a box if he could; nothing would ever be too much for this girl who he loved more than life itself. Jessica smiled at him, fixing him with a knowing look.

  Coral cried. This was to be expected at the mention of Danny on a day like this. Jessica’s girlfriends whooped and hollered on cue; in fact everyone on the Tarts and Slackers table was giving as good as they were getting in terms of banter. They were all, however, similarly affected by the words of Jessica’s dad, which made their tears flow. They had all known Danny, remembered Jessica’s quiet older brother who had now bizarrely become her younger brother, frozen aged fourteen. Polly in particular sobbed noisily into her linen napkin, smearing it with lipstick and mascara in the process. Their collective outpouring was partly in response to Mr Maxwell’s loving sentiments and partly because none of them could imagine how life might be now that Jessica, who in their school-leavers’ yearbook was described as ‘Little Miss Chatterbox, the girl who even talks in her sleep!’, was a married woman. It felt like the end of an era and was a timely reminder that they too would be jumping off the ship that sailed on the sea of singledom sooner rather than later.

  Matthew tried several times to begin his speech, but with the persistent chanting of ‘Deano!’, his student footballing nickname, it was almost impossible. Eventually Jessica stood and with arms outstretched and palms facing down, patted at the air, signalling for Jake and the boys to be quiet.

  ‘You’re so bossy, Jess!’ Jake yelled. ‘Poor Matt!’

  ‘I am not bossy, I’m assertive.’ She smiled at her husband’s best friend.

  ‘Thank you, my assertive darling.’ Matthew kissed her forehead and she nodded gratefully in response.

  ‘We all knew Jess wouldn’t be able to resist getting involved during the speeches, right? Apparently the trick for me is going to be how to get her to shut up, not just today but throughout our married life. For the days when that proves impossible, Roger has very kindly given me these for use in extreme emergencies.’

  Matthew bent down to reach below the table, then straightened up to reveal a pair of orange ear defenders in his hand. Everybody laughed and clapped, her parents included. Jessica thumped her groom on the bottom as he continued. ‘Wow! In all seriousness, how to follow that?’ He looked at Roger. ‘And I must say, a good summing-up from my father-in-law. Ever thought of leaving the sales game and taking up law, Roger? We could do with your sort in the courtroom!’

  ‘Hear! Hear!’ his colleagues concurred.

  Jessica was happy beyond words that her dad and husband were friends. It would mean that all the Christmases, birthdays and holidays at the seaside that she pictured in her head, where they and her parents laughed as they played cards or ate fish and chips on a pebble beach, would come to fruition. Her stomach knotted in anticipation.

  ‘I am quite possibly the happiest man on the planet today…’ Matthew began.

  Jessica smiled up at her husband on this, the happiest day of her life.

  18th January, 2012

  Dear Diary

  I think that’s how I’m supposed to start. The doctor’s instructions weren’t that specific. So here goes. What to say? It’s hard to know what to put. It’s not like anything much happens.

  There was a treat this afternoon. I use the term loosely as participation was compulsory. It’s strange, isn’t it, that even supposedly nice things, when done under instruction inside these magnolia-painted brick walls, have the joy sucked from them.

  It was a visit from a beautic
ian called Kimberley. She wore long, thick, false eyelashes and her blinks were slow and languid, as though weighed down by the feathery fronds. It made me want to rub my own eyes. She arrived carrying a plastic box that I’m sure was designed for tools. I remember my dad owning one that was similar, full of paint-spattered brushes, screwdrivers and, bizarrely, odd buttons that he must have found around the house.

  Kimberley was accompanied by a young, silent apprentice who blushed with awkwardness as she massaged oil into our cuticles and painted pastel-shaded glitter onto our nails. I wanted to smile at her and tell her not to worry, we aren’t contagious, but I don’t smile any more.

  I sat on a stool that was bolted to the floor; God forbid someone might actually give in to their simmering rage and lob it at something or someone. As instructed, I sat with my hands stretched out on the tabletop, flexing downwards from the wrists and resting on a rolled-up white towel as Kimberley sawed back and forth with the emery board. I glanced to the left and right at the girls who sat either side of me. I was transfixed by the sight of our hands. Hands that could not be prettified or cleaned simply by washing them and applying a coat of nail polish. Hands stained with blood and violence. One pair choked the life from an ageing aunt for money; others cut the throat of a lover. Then I started to think about what my own hands had done. I studied my fingers and I remembered.

  I cried then, as I often do. Kimberley’s assistant glanced at me nervously from the corner of her eye, distracted from her task. I saw the lump in her throat as she swallowed her fears. I could guess at her thoughts: what comes after tears? Will she fly into a rage? Hurt me? She for one would be glad that those stools were immoveable. I wished I could summon a smile to tell her not to worry, that I would not fly into a rage or hurt her.