by Helga Jensen
What I haven’t told Sian yet is that I also have my old record player in the other box. I pray it still works.
I present it in front of her, carefully placing a record down on the turntable as she jumps about with excitement. I succumb to the dust and it makes me sneeze, causing the needle to jump as I put it down. The music is a little scratchy sounding and not too great, but it wouldn’t have quite the same effect if the sound quality was perfect. This is what you call truly authentic.
‘Wait for it,’ I say. ‘This will bring back memories.’
I put on Samantha Fox, ‘Touch Me’.
‘Waahhh. Can’t believe you have this. Reminds me of the rugby club disco. Do you remember? Wasn’t that where we first met Jamie and his gang?’ says Sian.
‘Those were the days. The awful stamp they used on our hand wouldn’t come off until the following Friday,’ I say with a laugh. ‘Ooh, do you remember one of Jamie’s friends had a real thing for you,’ I add.
‘Oh my god, Geraint. He came and brought me a Coke over and asked me to dance. We must have only been about thirteen. What was he thinking?’ says Sian.
‘Yeah, he was a bit pushy. Lucky though, as we’d never have made friends with Jamie if it wasn’t for Geraint.’
‘No, he did have a word with him for me. Never bothered me again. Jamie’s always been good at sorting people out. Why he can’t see through Miserable Megan, though, I don’t know,’ says Sian.
‘No, that is odd. He’s never really had any serious relationships since the divorce. I think he was too busy with his dad before. Maybe he’s a bit lonely now his dad has gone. They were so close,’ I say.
‘Wah! You have Madness. Oh, I love this song.’ Distracted, Sian picks up a single.
We find a few other wonderful singles and a Kim Wilde album that I don’t remember owning but, without any warning, the needle finally gives up. The arm of the record player screeches along the album, scratching it completely as it does so. Our moment of nostalgia becomes diminished as fast as the Kim Wilde 12-inch. Now I understand why technology moved on from those old hi-fis; hooray for new technology.
‘I bet some of these records are worth something, Amelia,’ says Sian.
‘Oh, I don’t know. I doubt it,’ I say as I pick up ‘Agadoo’ by Black Lace.
‘Record shops would probably pay me to keep my records away from them if anything,’ I joke.
I must have been very young when I started collecting these records. I am so grateful that Mum kept them all. Although there was no need for her to keep everything. I even found a pink shell suit in the box. Must have been from the early 1990s. For a moment, I did wonder whether it should go in a blue refuse bag, or a black one. I doubt it could be recycled, though, as it looks highly flammable. You certainly wouldn’t want to be walking past a scented candle wearing it, that’s for sure. Therefore, I finally opted for the black bin bag ready for next week’s refuse collection. I have also ensured that there is no trace of my address anywhere in the bin, so that I can never be associated with it and it remains untraceable. I am not even going to tell Sian about it or I will never live it down – even though she had one in purple.
‘Ooh, there is something else I have too. Another surprise. One from New York.’ Sian is going to die when she sees this.
I hand her Perfect Patrick’s telephone number.
‘Are you serious? Is this the guy you met in New York? You kept his number? How could you control yourself? I thought you threw it out even though I told you not to,’ she says.
‘I didn’t realise that I’d left it in the suitcase. I must have kept it as a souvenir,’ I say.
I suddenly feel a tinge of regret that I didn’t go out for that drink. But surely even if I had gone on a date with him, we would have had nothing in common. I was used to boys asking if I wanted a snog and a Snowball in the local nightclub, The Moonraker. This guy definitely knew his Sauvignon from his Chardonnay and would never have drunk a Snowball, not even a Malibu. Maybe he would be the type of person who would sneer at the idea of a spritzer and the like and I don’t appreciate that kind of snobbery.
Also, I still don’t understand his motive. Within two minutes of meeting me he had asked me out. Why me? New York was a big city; he could have asked anyone he wanted out on a date. He wouldn’t have had a shortage of dates with his good looks. Why would he try and pick up a tourist he had never met before? It was all a bit strange. Nowadays, I would have assumed that it was some kind of social experiment for YouTube, or something, but there was only Jeremy Beadle about in those days.
‘Why don’t you call him, Amelia?’ says Sian. ‘This could be so much fun. Imagine, he might sweep you off your feet. You’re not moving to New York though; I’d miss you too much.’
‘I’m not going to call him. It’s just a bit of fun, that’s all. Reminded me of the great time I had in New York.’
‘Oh, come on, we have to at least ring the number. Don’t be a spoilsport. We can put the phone down if he answers. Let’s hear his voice,’ begs Sian.
‘No, Sian. Don’t. It could be the middle of the night there anyhow. Besides, what would you say? You remember the girl you met outside Tiffany’s in 2000… Don’t be so silly, Sian.’
As usual Sian is being insistent and pulls out her mobile phone and starts dialling the international number.
I try to pull the phone off her.
‘No! Don’t. Please don’t call him. You can’t do this to me, Sian. I wish I hadn’t told you now. I am never telling you anything ever again,’ I threaten.
My head is in my hands as I hear the phone ring on the other side. I could really kill Sian sometimes. I know if he answers she won’t keep her mouth shut.
I pray there is no answer.
‘Hi, your call cannot be answered right now. Please leave a message.’
Thank goodness it is an automated voicemail. I hit the phone out of Sian’s hands before she can think of leaving a message.
‘Enough, stop it,’ I say. ‘I know you’ll leave him a message.’
I take the paper with the phone number to ensure she doesn’t attempt to ring him again. Although I am a bit concerned that she still has the number stored on her phone.
‘Don’t ring him again, okay. You’d better promise me,’ I beg.
‘Say I can organise you a divorce party and I will see what I can do.’
‘A divorce party?’ I say incredulously. ‘Do people actually celebrate getting divorced? It’s horrible, not a cause for celebration.’
‘Everyone’s doing it nowadays,’ says Sian. ‘All the celebs do it and there’s always some divorce party on reality TV programmes. It’s fun. Come on. I promise not to call your Perfect Patrick if you let me arrange one.’
‘I don’t know. Is there cake?’
‘Yes, you can definitely have cake, Amelia. I’ll order one especially for you.’
‘Okay, well, if you promise not to call Patrick and bring cake, it’s a deal.’
‘You’re on. The next weekend the boys are over at Dick’s, we’ll invite a few of the girls over and have some drinks. We can even put some music on if you can get the needle fixed. It’ll be a laugh.’
I still think it strange that anyone would have a divorce party, but the thought of having the girls round and eating cake does sound appealing.
‘Right. I’d better go, my sweets; I have a party to plan. I’m so excited.’
I immediately wonder if the party is more for Sian than for me.
‘Don’t forget to invite Jane. I think she might be in need of a girls’ night out,’ I say.
Sian has arranged to meet Markus next Tuesday, and I am so worried about Jane. I can’t decide if she is better knowing the truth or living a life of oblivion with the best husband in the world. I suppose she deserves to know; I just don’t want to be involved in breaking her heart. If I am honest, I wish we had never found out.
* * *
Jasper and Rupert have been playing Minecraft for
an hour when I finally interrupt them. They are quite disappointed when I poke my head around their bedroom door.
‘Ohh, Mummmm, I’m in the middle of something very important. Do we have to go to bed now?’ groans Rupert.
I don’t normally allow them to play on the computer before bed but, as it’s almost the weekend, and Sian had popped over, I broke the rules.
‘Come on, let me read you a bedtime story,’ I say. ‘Don’t tell me you’re too old for one.’
‘No, Mummy, we’ll never be too old for a bedtime story,’ says Jasper kindly.
Rupert, on the other hand, is yet again in a bad mood. I think the divorce has affected him quite badly as he was so close to Dick. His dad never could do any wrong in Rupert’s eyes, even when Dick would sometimes let him down and not get home from work in time to take him to the movies, or whatever they had planned. Dick would quickly make up for it with some grand gesture; like coming home with a huge remote-control car, or a giant box of Lego. Everything would soon be forgotten.
‘Right, what shall we read?’
‘Why don’t we read one of the books that we found in the box? Your old books,’ says Jasper. ‘I’d love to hear one of the stories that Nana used to read to you.’
In the other box, brought down from the attic, were many of my childhood books, including Hans Christian Andersen and Enid Blyton classics.
Despite having such wonderful books beside me, I decide to read Cinderella since I am feeling a bit tired and, if I’m honest, it is a lot shorter than anything else at hand. It is very girly, I know. But I don’t often get the opportunity to do things with them that don’t involve grisly boy stuff, so I have to indulge in this one-off opportunity.
As the boys snuggle into each of their bunks, I sit on the lower one with Rupert and read the story out loud.
‘“How lovely that she found her prince and, not only that, she also got to own such a fabulous pair of shoes.”’
Rupert yawns deliberately.
‘Okay, Rupert, it’s finished now… And they all lived happily ever after,’ I conclude.
‘Well, why didn’t you and Daddy end up like that then?’ says Rupert, startling me with his harsh words.
I don’t even know what to say for a moment and try to compose my thoughts. I do what I always do when I find myself in a sticky situation and make a joke of it.
‘Ah, well, you see, Daddy isn’t a prince. It only happens like that when you marry a prince. Daddy is a banker and not a prince. There’s a huuuge difference.’
Jasper laughs, and Rupert eyes me seriously.
‘I’ve heard you call her Tanja Tart, you know,’ he replies.
‘Rupert, don’t say that,’ I scold him, partly because I am feeling so guilty.
I make a mental note to remember that the boys are always listening, even when I think they are not.
With the stress of the divorce, I am acutely aware that I have not been the best mum over the past few weeks and may have said some naughty things out loud. However, Rupert’s words have upset me. I definitely won’t call her Tanja Tart anymore. Well, not in earshot of the kids anyway. I can’t promise when I am talking to Sian that it won’t slip out.
I know divorce affects children in different ways and so I consider how I can make it up to them.
I decide that I will make them a nice meal and I might even try and find a healthy chicken nugget recipe, since that is all they both eat. Then, when they come home from school, I will spend all afternoon helping them with their homework and taking an interest in Minecraft, even though no adult I know of understands it. I must first purchase Minecraft for Dummies, so that I can pretend I know what I am on about, and I might even be able to throw in a Minecraft term every now and then, like creeper or mod. I mean what is a mod? They were those guys on mopeds in my day, but I don’t think the boys mean that, as I did ask them once if the mods had bikes and they had no idea what I was talking about. Taking up Minecraft will be like learning a new skill, a whole new language. Yes, this will be fun, just like when I first went on Club Penguin with them and we built the coolest igloo ever.
For a moment, I feel content. These boys are my life. I am so glad of their company. However, in the back of my mind I have a niggling thought that I can’t quite shake off.
When the boys grow up and have partners of their own, what will happen to me? The harsh truth is that I am far too unbendable to run off to a yoga retreat. Is it selfish to worry about life without the boys at home and me being needed? Children grow up so fast, already these years have whizzed by. Without them here, I think I would fall apart. What will I have left when they leave home? The answer frightens me.
Chapter 6
The kitchen – I am officially Supermum
I haven’t had the best of starts today. I was so positive about it being a new day and how I would turn over a new Supermum leaf, but then I had a phone call from Dick. It seems that he now wants joint custody of Tammy the tortoise. Not content with stealing only my husband, Dick has informed me that Tanja has always wanted a tortoise and therefore he feels it only fair that he takes ours, since he paid for it many years ago. He says he will come by at 3pm to pick Tammy up, and I can have her/him (we still don’t really know the sex after fifteen years) at weekends. This, he says, is what happens when I get custody of the boys all week. I am enraged. I tried to point out that this means the boys won’t see Tammy, but he told me that if I disputed his demand it would result in legal action once again. Dick loves the drama of lawyers, even if he doesn’t want to pay for them. It was his choice to go off with Tanja, so I don’t know why he makes life difficult for me. I wish I could get him to see me as the mother of his beautiful boys, instead of a major inconvenience in his life. I often wonder if he ever loved me at all. Did he marry me because he wanted a promotion at the bank? His branch manager, Mr Evans, did appear to only promote the staff who were steady and married. Or did Dick marry me because he thought he would have cheap holidays, as I was working in a travel agency when we met? I wanted to be a nurse when I left school, but my mother’s friend owned the agency and offered me an immediate job. Had I trained as a nurse I would never have met Dick and would have accomplished my dream job.
I am so sceptical of things now that I don’t even look back fondly at the time Dick came in to book a skiing holiday with his friends and our eyes met. Dick is so mercenary that I now believe he only proposed to me so that he could get a discount on his annual boys’ golfing holiday to Portugal. Instead of our eyes meeting with a look of love in them, I think he just saw ‘50 per cent off’ holiday signs.
Well, he won’t be happy if he gets any invoices from the vet for Tammy. Pets can be expensive. I have to choose my battles carefully. As Tammy will be going into hibernation in a few months, if Tanja Tart wants to look at a box in her shed with a sleeping tortoise for five months, then so be it. Reluctantly, I agree but, as I have been upset about what I shall call ‘Tortoise Gate’ all morning, I didn’t manage to get out of the house and go on the quest for preservative-free chicken nuggets, kale, or not even one grain of quinoa. Instead, I realise that I do have the ingredients for Welsh cakes in the house, and the boys love their Welsh cakes, so I dig out my mum’s special Welsh cake recipe. Every Welsh mother has their own special recipe that they pass down.
Mammy’s Welsh Cakes
1lb self-raising flour
8oz butter
8oz currants
8oz caster sugar
2 eggs
milk to mix
I haven’t had one of my mum’s Welsh cakes for years. My mouth is already watering as I mix the flour, sugar and butter to create a breadcrumb-type mixture. Next I add currants and then the eggs. I can’t resist stealing a piece of uncooked Welsh cake mix, delicious! My legs ache as I come to the end of cooking the Welsh cakes on the traditional plank my mother used to have. I have now been standing for so long that I am sure I’m starting to get varicose veins. I did sit down once, while I was cooking, as I
overheard something on This Morning about some man having a midlife crisis and leaving his wife, but then I managed to burn a whole batch of Welsh cakes. So, I didn’t find out what happened in the end and had to return to turning over my Welsh cakes.
For the first time in ages the boys come home to the smell of cooking.
‘Ooh, something smells nice, Mum,’ says Jasper the second we open the door.
‘Come and see what I made earlier,’ I say, leading them into the kitchen, where the freshly baked Welsh cakes are waiting for them.
‘Welsh cakes, nom, nom, nom,’ says Jasper.
Rupert, meanwhile, stuffs one straight into his mouth without saying anything.
‘Have you got any homework to do?’ I ask.
‘No, Mrs Jones was off sick today,’ says Rupert.
‘That means we can play more Minecraft,’ adds Jasper.
‘I’d love to see what you do. Can I come and watch?’ I ask.
Rupert rolls his eyes, while Jasper agrees to allow me to observe.
* * *
I am sat in their bedroom for all of five minutes before I want to fall asleep. I really don’t get this. All I see are a lot of blocks piling up. I am struggling with this part of becoming the utopian mum.
‘Oh, and is that a mod you are making there?’ I ask, feeling so intelligent.
The boys don’t answer though; they are too busy with their creepers, or whatever it is. No, I still don’t have a clue what is going on. I may as well give up.
‘I’m just going to make a cup of tea; anyone want anything?’
‘Yeah, a trip to Disneyland,’ Rupert answers sarcastically. ‘Did you hear back if that horrible painting is worth anything yet?’
‘Don’t be mean, Rupert. She’s one of our ancestors. Don’t speak about the painting like that,’ I snap.
All we seem to do is bicker.
If only the painting were worth a lot of money, then I could surprise them both with the Disneyland trip. I haven’t even told them about Tammy yet. If I could successfully plan a holiday like Disney for them then it might cheer them up a bit.