by Fiona Gibson
Also, I am mulling over my other date, with Stephen. I can’t say there was any wild attraction, but perhaps it could develop over time, enriching and intensifying like a curry left overnight in the fridge. Maybe lunch with a perfectly lovely dentist is as good as it gets, and to hope for more is – to steal Ingrid’s term – downright greedy.
When I arrive at Mum’s, she is sitting there in readiness, with her shower-proof jacket zipped up to the neck.
‘Happy birthday,’ I say, hugging her bird-like body, and wondering if this is why she has me down as a size 24: compared to her, almost everyone is huge. All the way back to Edinburgh, she regales me with exciting developments regarding her septic tank.
‘I’m sure it’s backed up,’ she informs me. ‘Nothing’s flushing away as it should and sometimes there’s a sort of choking noise.’
I picture Logan and Fergus, hanging out on some beautiful Skye beach. ‘If you’re worried,’ I remark, ‘it’s probably best to call someone sooner rather than later.’
She chooses to ignore this. ‘If your father had maintained it properly, then I wouldn’t be having these problems now.’
‘Is there a reason you’re not getting someone to look at it?’ I ask.
She turns and squints at me. ‘Plumbers are very expensive.’
‘Yes, but if you think something serious is about to happen—’
‘Let’s just hope it doesn’t,’ she says bleakly. Good lord. It’s almost as if she’s willing the damn septic tank to explode in her face, just so she can say, ‘Told you so, this is all your father’s fault.’ We fall into silence in the slow-moving Edinburgh traffic, passing through well-heeled suburbs where attractive mothers with bouncy hair and toddlers in hydraulic buggies march happily in the spring sunshine. And a small thought starts to form, one of which I’m not proud: how the hell will I get through the next two days? When he mentioned Valium, Ali-the-newsagent wasn’t far wrong. I could spend the evenings mildly pissed, but suspect that it’ll only loosen my tongue in a not particularly helpful way – especially if Mum launches into one of her rants about Dad, or sewage. Plus, I’ll be tired and crotchety in the mornings, and she expects a full Scottish breakfast (including black pudding and potato scones – her dietary restrictions don’t extend to breakfast) at a ‘decent hour’, i.e. eight a.m. latest. I turn into our narrow side street and pull up outside my block, still a little edgy in case I’ve left a well-thumbed Jilly Cooper beside the loo.
Upstairs we go, with me carrying Mum’s brown carpet bag and letting us into the flat.
‘Happy birthday,’ I say again, handing her a card and a tissue-wrapped parcel in the kitchen.
‘Oh, thank you,’ she says, rather stiffly. Rather than standing there watching her open it, I busy myself by assembling our deli lunch, hoping she shows more enthusiasm for the cheeses than the present I selected after much deliberation in John Lewis last week.
‘This is very nice,’ Mum says, studying the cornflower-blue sweater for a microsecond before draping it over the back of a chair.
‘I thought you’d like the colour,’ I say. ‘Blue really suits you.’
‘It’s lovely, Alice.’
Pay it some more attention then. Fondle it, like a pet. With no more feedback forthcoming, I set out plates and cutlery and pour glasses of wine. As we sit down for lunch, it starts to feel a little more companionable; at least when it’s just the two of us, I don’t have the added pressure of worrying about the boys being surly with Grandma.
‘Viv’s been commissioned to make some huge hangings for the Surgeons’ Hall Museum,’ I tell her. ‘I thought we could drop by and see them, if you fancy it.’
‘Sounds interesting,’ Mum says, although I’m aware that she has never entirely approved of Viv and her free-spirited ways.
‘The boys used to love it there,’ I continue. ‘Logan especially enjoyed all the gruesome body parts in jars. If ever we were bored, and it was raining, he’d ask to go and see the pickled warts.’
She chuckles and tucks into the cheese and olives. ‘Don’t you take them to museums any more?’
I can’t help laughing at that. ‘Mum, Logan would no more be seen walking around a museum with me than in Marks and Spencer’s knicker department.’
‘Why not?’ She regards me with genuine bafflement.
‘Because it’s a museum, full of old things, and one of his friends might spot him going in and that would be his young life ruined.’
‘Really?’ she says, still failing to understand. Having polished off at least half the monks’ cheese, she pulls on her birthday sweater over her green and black spotty shirt, and the mood lifts as we venture out into the bright spring day.
My entire adult life I’ve been wrestling the great conundrum: How to Enjoy Spending Time With Mother. And as our day begins to unfold, I wonder if I’ve had a tendency to overcomplicate things. Mum may be a world authority on Medieval literature, but she’s still capable of enjoying simple things like strolling through Princes Street Gardens beneath a clear blue sky, and pausing to admire the spectacular view of the castle, even though she has seen it numerous times before. We stop for coffee at a kiosk and, by the time the Surgeons’ Hall comes into view, I’m thinking, is this all there is to it? You just go out with your mum, have a bit of a chat and it ends up being a pretty nice time? It’s taken me thirty-nine years to realise this? Mum hasn’t even mentioned my weight today. Just before we go into the museum, I bend down to re-buckle my sandal (I think part of me wants to test her) which causes my embroidered top to ride up, exposing a little muffin top above my jeans. While I can sense her glancing at the offending squidge, she manages not to say anything. She even seems to have forgotten about her septic tank.
We make our way into the museum. It’s a grand old building with huge, stern pillars, which feels somehow right for a Day Out With Mum. In the first hall, Viv’s enormous canvasses are suspended from the ceiling; they are portraits of famous Scottish doctors, made up of tiny, sketchy machine-embroidered lines, shimmering like water.
‘They’re very good,’ Mum concedes. ‘I didn’t realise Viv was up to that standard.’
‘Well, she has been doing textiles for about twenty years,’ I remind her. ‘But, yes, she is brilliant.’
‘Alice?’ comes the male voice to my left.
I swing round. ‘Stephen,’ I exclaim. ‘How are you?’
‘Great,’ he says, smiling. ‘This is obviously the place to be on Easter Sunday.’
I laugh. ‘Mum – this is Stephen … this is Eileen, my mum …’
He shakes her hand as I glance down at the small, pale-faced girl who’s standing patiently at his side. ‘This is Molly, my daughter,’ he says.
‘Hello, Molly,’ I say. ‘I’m Alice.’
She has mournful grey eyes and her long dark hair is neatly secured in a single plait that snakes down her back. ‘Is Daddy your dentist?’ she asks politely.
‘No, I’m just, er, a friend,’ I reply.
‘Ah, you’re the dentist,’ Mum barks, causing him to give her a look of surprise.
‘Um … yes,’ he replies as she regards him intensely, probably sizing him up as my future husband, a clearly well-educated man to steer me away from my fluffy pursuits. Mum has been a tad uneasy since Tom and I split as if, without a husband to anchor me, I am in serious danger of screwing up my life.
Molly looks up at me with a shy smile. ‘I like your top,’ she says.
‘Thank you, Molly,’ I say, grateful for the distraction, ‘it’s just an old thing—’
‘Alice shops in those cheap places,’ Mum says, eyes twinkling mischievously. ‘You know – the ones that use child labour in India …’
I turn to her, aghast. ‘Mum, I don’t. How can you say that?’
‘You never can tell, though,’ she adds sagely, addressing both Molly and Stephen, ‘because the factories subcontract some of the finishing processes, so there’s no way of knowing exactly where it’s been made. I sa
w it in a documentary last week.’ She glares at my top, obviously having forgotten our pleasant lunch and stroll through the gardens; what I’d assumed was the start of an enjoyable mother-and-daughter day.
Molly is gazing up at her, transfixed. ‘Is that true?’ she asks.
‘Oh, yes,’ Mum says confidently. ‘There are children your age, Molly, stitching on beads and doing embroidery just like that for twelve hours a day. Their little fingers are ideal for that fiddly work, you see.’ Molly blinks slowly, perhaps imagining herself being whisked away from her kind father and deposited in a scary factory thousands of miles from home. I swallow hard, aware that I must remain pleasant in front of Stephen and Molly. Since when did Mum start caring about how clothes are made? She buys the cheapest things imaginable. I spotted her newest blouse in a shop the other day. It was £4.99, not even reduced – that was its actual price. How could its seams not have been gummed together by the tears of orphans? Still, at least my cheese was handcrafted, or did that somehow involve the exploitation of ewes?
I catch Stephen’s eye, relieved that at least Mum has managed to resist forcing him to ask me out on another date. ‘Anyway,’ I say quickly, ‘we should let you have a look around.’
‘Why don’t we all go around together?’ Mum suggests. ‘It’s nice to have the company of a bright young person.’ She turns to me, all smiles. ‘Alice used to bring her boys here but she doesn’t bother any more.’
*
Although it pains me to admit it, Mum turns out to be right. There is something especially enjoyable about looking around a museum with an enthusiastic child. Molly’s delight is infectious and, as she has clearly been here many times before, she turns out to be an impeccable guide.
‘… And that’s what they used to give chloroform in,’ she says, pointing at an antique inhaler-type object. ‘It stopped it hurting when people had operations.’
‘Right,’ I say, wondering if my boys and I should have spent our visits here looking at the exhibits properly, and reading the captions instead of squealing moronically over the pickled body parts.
‘They used to saw off people’s legs without anaesthetic,’ Molly adds cheerfully. ‘There was blood everywhere and they screamed in agony.’
‘Did they? Ugh.’ I glance at Stephen who beckons me over.
‘She loves this place,’ he murmurs. ‘I hope we’re not ruining your day.’
‘Of course not,’ I reply truthfully. ‘Molly’s so clever, Stephen. I’ve never met a child quite like her. I hope she doesn’t mind us tagging along.’
He casts her a quick glance as she and my mother move on to the next room. ‘No, she’s obviously warmed to you already …’
‘Warmed to Mum, you mean,’ I laugh. ‘The two of them have really hit it off. You see, that’s the kind of daughter she would have loved. Molly’s amazing, you must be so proud.’
He smiles and stuffs his hands into the back pockets of his jeans. ‘I am, of course. She’s a great kid, but I don’t think I’ve had much influence really …’
‘You must have,’ I reply, ‘and you can do girls’ hair. At least, I’m assuming she didn’t manage to do that plait all by herself.’
His greenish eyes crinkle. ‘No, she did need a bit of help with that.’
‘Well, I’m impressed.’
‘And your mum …’ He tails off, as if wondering how to put it. ‘She’s very, um, forthright, isn’t she?’
‘You mean the child labour thing?’ I chuckle. ‘That’s a new one to add to her catalogue of my failings.’
‘Hard going, is she?’
I pause, considering this. ‘Actually, she’s staying with me for a couple of days and so far it’s not going too badly. She’s … tricky, yeah. But then, Dad left her last year so she hasn’t had the best time of it lately.’
‘Sounds tough,’ he ventures. ‘For both of you, I mean.’
‘Well, it knocked her for six, and I’m trying to learn not to take things personally.’
He smiles. ‘That’s very grown-up of you.’
I laugh, buoyed up by Stephen’s presence; somehow, he is helping to dispel my annoyance over Mum implying that I’m single-handedly supporting the sweatshops of Calcutta.
‘I figured it’s better than being the petulant teenager. I have enough of that at home, frankly. Anyway, shall we see what they’re up to?’
‘Yes, we’d better,’ Stephen says. We find Mum and Molly in the next room, poring over an early X-ray machine made of polished wood.
‘It looks just like your trouser press, Daddy,’ Molly announces, spinning around to face us.
‘So it does,’ he replies. A trouser press? I’ve never encountered one outside a hotel room setting, and Stephen doesn’t strike me as the kind of man who’d own one. His dark jeans don’t look especially well-pressed, but maybe he uses it for work clothes. Do dentists tend to dress smartly? I have to admit, I’ve always focused on their looming faces and poky fingers rather than their trousers. Seems odd, though. I mean, any man I have ever known has managed perfectly well with an iron.
We all make our way through to the body parts room where I find myself next to Molly. ‘You obviously love coming here,’ I remark.
‘Yeah, it’s great.’ She peers intently at a human eyeball in a jar.
‘What other things d’you like doing?’
She frowns, as if considering this. ‘Um, I’m a pixie,’ she offers.
‘You mean, like a fairy?’
‘No,’ she says firmly, ‘pixies are different.’
‘They originate in Celtic mythology,’ Mum cuts in, heading towards us.
‘They’re Medieval,’ Molly adds.
Mum beams approvingly. ‘You’re right, Molly. They actually go right back to the fourteenth century …’
‘We meet every Wednesday and make things,’ Molly continues.
‘What kind of things?’ I ask.
She twiddles the end of her plait. ‘Um … we did cards last week.’
‘Oh, my boys used to make Mother’s Day cards for me, usually out of pasta sprayed gold.’ I stop, registering her unblinking gaze and small mouth set in a frown. Hell, what made me say that? Stephen mentioned that Molly’s mum is preoccupied with her new family; is it even okay to mention mothers at all?
‘I don’t do that,’ she says quietly. Oh, God. I have really upset her now. I glance towards Stephen, hoping he’ll jump in to jolly her up, but he’s chatting away with Mum beside a human skeleton. ‘Spray paint is bad for the planet,’ Molly adds gravely, ‘so we use ordinary paint instead.’
She was only concerned about the casual use of aerosols. Thank Christ for that.
‘D’you wanna see a book made of human skin, Eileen?’ she pipes up, beckoning my mother over. ‘It’s the creepiest thing I ever saw!’
Mum laughs, the first proper, genuine one I’ve heard coming from her mouth since, well, since forever really. I’d be no more surprised to see a pony laughing.
‘That sounds marvellous, Molly,’ she enthuses. ‘Lead the way.’
*
‘Well, he’s a nice man,’ she declares loudly, the instant we part company from Stephen and Molly outside the museum.
‘Yes, he is,’ I reply.
I can sense her giving me quick glances as we make our way down towards Princes Street. ‘Lovely daughter too. Very bright …’
‘Yes, Mum.’
‘So he’s the one Kirsty introduced you to?’
I nod, a smile teasing my lips; out of my three oldest friends, Mum far prefers Kirsty, probably because she has devoted her life to the home educating of her children – and clearly regards her as a trustworthy assessor of men.
‘So … are you and Stephen getting along well?’ she wants to know.
‘Mum, I don’t really know him. I like him, yes, but I’ve only met him once before today, and that was for lunch.’
‘But you were chatting away in the museum …’
I blow out air. ‘Yes, he’s nice
but—’
‘But what?’ She stops outside a beleaguered dry-cleaners.
‘But … I don’t know. It’s early days and, anyway, the whole point is that Ingrid, Viv and Kirsty are each setting me up on a blind date. I’ve also met Giles, who Viv chose …’
‘What was he like?’
An extremely hot twenty-nine-year-old. ‘He was … interesting.’
We start walking again, but no matter how often I try to change the subject, she keeps swerving it back to Stephen and what an almighty catch he is.
‘He seemed like a very interesting man,’ she offers with a sly smile.
‘I know, Mum,’ I reply, ‘but it doesn’t mean I’m going to dive on the first man who shows a glimmer of interest. Anyway, I don’t even know how he feels about me. I’m sure he just wants to be friends, if that. He has a pretty full life.’
Mum frowns, causing a little furrow to appear between her faint brows. ‘He said, “I’ll call you” when we left the museum.’
‘Yes, to be polite.’
‘He didn’t have to—’
‘Well, he sort of did. People say it just to be nice. Saying, “Goodbye” and then marching off would seem a little abrupt.’ Like I know anything about twenty-first-century dating etiquette …
‘Would it?’ she asks, a hint of sadness creeping into her voice. ‘I suppose I’m just out of touch.’
‘I just mean it probably wasn’t a declaration of love,’ I say, trying to lighten things up as we make our way to the shops. We have a little poke around, avoiding any places in which the clothes are suspiciously cheap, but I can tell Mum’s heart isn’t in it. Stephen-the-dentist hangs over us like a spectre, with Mum making it clear that I’m crazy not to have grabbed him by the hair and dragged him off to the registry office.
‘I think you should at least give him a chance,’ she ventures as we tuck into an early supper in a tapas bar. ‘Why would you let a man like that go to waste?’
‘Go to waste?’ I say, laughing. ‘He’s not a leftover egg yolk, Mum. And he’s hardly short of admirers. In fact he mentioned some woman who pops around with a casserole twice a week—’