by Gil McNeil
Dan’s mum Doreen’s already driving Molly round the bend. She really is awful. Molly’s made three different sorts of cake for tea but Doreen says she can only eat plain Madeira, and then criticises Lily’s table manners, which are fine, but ignores Alfie’s, which are appalling. He actually floats a bit of his flapjack in my tea, just to see what will happen, and when I fish it out and tell him to stop it she says bless him, he’s just being inquisitive.
Dan takes the children for a walk after tea, mainly to escape Doreen, I think. She settles herself in an armchair and begins a long speech about how marvellous he is.
‘It’s so different nowadays. I mean men didn’t really used to bother with children, but then we didn’t ask them to, we just got on with it. I don’t know how you modern women do it, I really don’t, going out to work and everything.’
What she means is she doesn’t know why we do it, and she thinks it’s a scandal.
‘He does seem tired, though. He was telling me you take it in turns to make supper. Do you think going for this new job Dan was telling me about is really a good idea, dear? Only I should think you’d find it hard enough just coping with things as they are without taking on more. I think it’s wonderful that you devote so much of your time to your children at school, I really do, but Lily and the new baby will need you too, you know.’
Jesus, she’s actually accusing Molly of being a bad mother now.
‘Still, I’m sure between the two of you it’ll be fine. And at least you’re in a nice warm school, not outdoors on a building site. He’s out in all weathers, you know.’
I can’t let her get away with this.
‘Oh, I don’t know about that. I spend quite a lot of time on building sites, and there’s a lot of sitting about in huts drinking tea, reading the paper and making rude jokes.’
She completely ignores me.
‘I think it’s wonderful the way men today do their share. When I think of how much harder it was for us. I mean I didn’t have a washing machine until Danny was four, you know. I did it all by hand. Mind you, I still do a fair bit by hand – I find it’s kinder on delicates.’
Old bag. She’d probably have us down by a river bashing stuff on stones if she could. Now Molly has to feel like a failure because she doesn’t do all the washing by hand.
‘Actually, I’m not sure men today really are that wonderful. I was reading something about it in the paper the other day, and apparently one in three men don’t even wake up if their babies cry in the night, let alone get up to them. Patric definitely never got up for Alfie, before he buggered off completely, I mean.’
Molly gives me a grateful sort of look.
‘Yes, and if they do wake up they just poke you in the back and say she’s crying again. Dan does get up sometimes, but I still do most of it.’
‘I never minded getting up to my babies.’
Bloody hell, she’s annoying.
‘Didn’t you? Oh I do. As much as I love Alfie I swear I’d swap him for a nice cup of tea and an extra hour in bed most mornings. But I suppose some things have changed for the better. Mum was just saying the other day how much better it is now people realise that having a baby doesn’t mean you have to stay at home for the rest of your life. She said she thought she was going to go round the bend when we were little. She was worried she was going to turn into one of those mad women who can recite recipes off by heart.’
Doreen has a habit of cutting recipes out of magazines and sending them to Molly. Quick suppers, nourishing soups, that kind of thing. Poor Molly looks close to tears. Time for my emergency escape plan.
‘Talking of brilliant cooks, I need to borrow Molly later, if that’s all right, only I’ve got to make a cake for Sunday, and I need her help. You don’t mind, do you? She’s so fabulous with cakes and I’m sure Dan will make supper. He can make you one of his special omelettes.’
Dan makes the worst omelette you’ve ever tasted. He manages to burn it and not cook it in the middle at the same time, which as Molly says is quite a special talent really. Serve the old bag right, eating one of the golden boy’s cheese-omelette specials.
‘Let’s go and look at the chicks again.’
‘I’ll stay by the fire, if you don’t mind, dear. I’ve got a bit of a headache coming on.’
We find her some headache tablets, which I notice she doesn’t take, and then go out to look at the chickens.
‘God, she’s awful.’
‘I know. I feel she’s judging my every move, and even though I know she’s wrong, and there’s more to life than cleaning the kitchen floor every day, I still hate it. It’s like she’s catching me out all the time.’
‘Who cleans their kitchen floor every day? God, don’t tell Mum.’
‘She does. She’s got timetables inside the cupboard doors in the kitchen. She ticks off the jobs as she does them.’
‘Maybe we should sneak round and write things on them.’
‘What, like Tuesday. Get A Life.’
‘Yes, or Friday. Get Over It.’
‘Thanks for rescuing me – you’re an angel.’
‘There is a catch, you know.’
‘I don’t care.’
‘You might. I really do want you to help me with the cake – I’ve made one, but it’s gone all lopsided. I’ve got some decorations, some little chickens, but I need you to help me with the icing so it doesn’t look like they’re trying to commit suicide by hurling themselves off a cliff.’
‘It’s a deal. Anything, as long as I can stay until past Lily’s bedtime.’
‘Stay all night, if you like. We can make wax models of Doreen and stick pins in them. That’ll sort out her headache.’
Easter Sunday is not going well, and it’s only half-past ten. Molly has rung to say that Doreen is still being awful, and got up at 7 a.m. to make breakfast for Dan, and used the last of the eggs, but she didn’t make anything for Molly because she said she didn’t know what she liked. And then the chickens got out, and it took them ages to get them back in, and apparently Edward was especially hard to track down and has now been rechristened Fast Eddie.
Mum rings after Molly, to remind me that it’s important to cook meat all the way through, and then Jim calls to say he’ll be late, and Alfie says he wants to go and see the chickens again, and he’s already eaten two Easter eggs. He’s got a manic grin on his face, and is busy being a chicken, which involves making a nest with all the cushions and lots of elbow-flapping.
I feel very tempted to go back to bed and pretend to be ill when Mum and Dad arrive, but instead I have to wrestle a giant ham into the roasting tin, and then coat it with honey. I start off with a spoon but end up using my hands. Actually it’s quite therapeutic, massaging away making lovely squelching noises. Until the phone rings. I forget I’m covered in honey and grab it, but it shoots out of my hands and skids across the floor. I shout ‘Bollocks’ very loudly, grab a tea towel and retrieve the phone, but whoever was calling has rung off. Bloody typical. It was probably some flaming double-glazing salesman thinking that Easter Sunday was the perfect time to catch people in and ask them how many windows they wanted replaced free of charge.
The phone is now covered in very unpleasant-looking brown marks, and I’m busy trying to wash them off when it starts ringing again. It’s Harry.
‘Was that you just then?’
‘What?’
‘Answering the phone by yelling “Bollocks”.’
‘Oh yes, sorry. I dropped the phone – I’m cooking.’
‘Right.’
‘And I’m covered in honey.’
‘Nice.’
Oh god, he must think I’m completely mad.
‘I’m doing a ham, and you have to put honey on it. It helps the flavour.’
‘Sounds delicious.’
Thank god I haven’t got one of those video-phones where the person you’re talking to can see you. Come to think of it I can’t work out who’d want a phone like that: you’d never be able to ge
t in the bath in case someone rang up.
‘Anyway, the thing is, I was just wondering, if you’re not busy or anything, if you’d like to come out for dinner one night? There’s a new Italian place in Tonbridge that’s supposed to be all right. We could talk about your garden. I’ve been thinking, it wouldn’t take much to get it sorted out, you know, and I think it would be fun.’
‘What, dinner or the garden?’
Bugger. I wish I hadn’t said that.
‘Both, I hope. Any night really, except Thursdays. My mother has all her old bags round for bridge and I have to lurk with drinks and sort out any major disputes. It can get quite nasty.’
‘Friday might be all right.’
‘Great. Friday it is. Shall I pick you up, around seven? Or is that too early?’
‘No, seven should be fine. I should have got the honey off by then.’
Oh god. I wish I hadn’t said that too.
‘Shame. Well, until Friday then. Oh and by the way, I haven’t forgotten about Alfie’s digger – I don’t want him to think I’ve stolen it. I’ll bring it on Friday. Bye.’
Bloody hell. I call Molly, who’s delighted, but she can’t really chat because Lily’s just poured lemonade all over the sofa.
‘What are you going to wear?’
‘God knows.’
‘I’ll come round if you like and we can have a dressing-up session.’
‘Brilliant.’
At least Molly knows just how limited my wardrobe is, and won’t make me throw away things that aren’t fashionable any more like they do on those television programmes where people’s special old jumpers are slung into skips.
Jim arrives with a terrible hangover, and a huge Easter egg for Alfie, which I grab and try to hide on a top shelf in the kitchen. Alfie thinks I’m being very unreasonable, and Jim agrees.
‘Fine. He’s already eaten two this morning, and a load of mini eggs, but if you want to give him another one and explain to Mum why he won’t eat his lunch then that’ll be fine. Oh and he might get a bit lively with all the extra sugar and then he’ll probably be sick. But he can sit near you, and you’ll take care of it, won’t you?’
‘Actually, Alf, you know, she might have a point. I mean maybe you should save it for tea. Or maybe for tomorrow. Then you’ll have something to look forward to. What do you think?’
‘Bollocks’.
Jim and I look at each other. He can’t really have said ‘Bollocks.’
‘Bollocks. I want my egg. Now.’
‘Alfie, that’s a very rude thing to say.’
‘You said it, you did, when the phone fell down, and you say it in the car when there’s a bus.’
‘Well, I shouldn’t say it, but sometimes grown-ups are allowed to do things they shouldn’t. But little boys aren’t – it’s very rude when little boys do it, much ruder than for grown-ups.’
‘Bollocks.’
I have to admit he’s got a point. But I also know it’s pretty crucial we clear this up before Mum and Dad arrive, or lunch could be tricky. I decide to try one of the most reliable ways of putting him off something, even though it drives me crazy.
‘Jim never says it. It’s quite a girly thing to say, actually.’
Thankfully, Jim works out what I’m up to and plays along.
‘Oh yes, very girly. Only mummies and girls say it really. I’d never say it.’
‘Would the big boys in your office laugh at you?’
‘Oh yes, they’d laugh themselves sick.’
Alfie considers this for a moment.
‘I want my egg. Now.’
I think he knows he’s being fobbed off, but he’s just not willing to risk adopting a word that might make the big boys laugh.
‘All right, but only have one piece?’
‘A big piece?’
‘OK.’
Mum and Dad arrive with another giant Easter egg. Great.
‘Hello, my little chicken, look what Nana’s brought you, a lovely big egg, but you’ve got to wait until after lunch, all right, sweetheart?’
‘All right, Nana. I love you, Nana. And I’ve got a chicken. He’s called Eddie. He lives at Aunty Molly’s house but he’s mine, he really is.’
How very bloody annoying. If I’d said he couldn’t start eating his egg he’d be on the floor having a fit, but when Nana says it it’s somehow completely fine.
‘How lovely, your very own chick. What a clever boy you are – come and sit down and tell me all about it. Bob, go and get my bag. I’ve got a new book for you, sweetheart, and it’s all about chickens. We can see if there’s one like yours in it, can’t we? Hello, James, why haven’t you shaved this morning? You look as if you’ve slept all night in that jumper.’
Mum insists on calling him James, for some reason best known to herself. Mainly because it annoys him, I think.
‘Lovely to see you too, Mum. Alf, enjoy it while you can. She’ll be telling you off about your jumpers soon.’
‘No I won’t, poppet. You won’t come to see your Nana in a scruffy jumper, will you?’
‘No. I like sweatshirts. I’ve got one with a dog on.’
‘I know you have. We should get you one with a chicken, shouldn’t we?’
‘Do you want a coffee, Mum?’
‘Oh yes please. And one for your father. Where’s he got to with that bag? Honestly, you can’t let him out of your sight for a minute. James, go and see what he’s doing, and if he’s heading off towards the pub just you turn him right back round again.’
Dad once stopped off at the pub on his way home from buying the Sunday papers about fifteen years ago, and she’s never let him forget it.
Lunch is a triumph: the ham looks rather black with the special honey coating, and Jim makes all sorts of comments about it until I explain it’s meant to look like this. It tastes fabulous, and the cake is nice too although Jim is very sarcastic about my chickens looking like they’re going skiing, and this reminds Dad of the skiing holiday we all went on when we were little when Jim skied straight into a tree and got concussion.
Mum makes Dad and Jim do the washing up, while we drink coffee and Alfie continues work on his entry into The Guiness Book of Records as the boy who ate the most chocolate in one day.
Dad and Jim are laughing in the kitchen, which is too much for Mum so she goes in to investigate. I just hope they’re not talking about Alfie saying ‘Bollocks’.
We go for a walk before tea to visit Molly and the chickens. Doreen tries to bond with Mum as soon as we arrive and says doesn’t she think children today are very badly behaved and noisy, and Mum says no, not really, and Doreen sulks.
I grab a quick five minutes with Molly in the kitchen. She’s looking tired.
‘Why don’t you ask Doreen to babysit? She might as well do something useful. Go out for the night, just you and Dan.’
‘Oh no, I’d spend the whole time worrying about her going through all the cupboards and looking at our bank statements.’
‘True. But at least the place would be nice and tidy when you got home.’
‘Actually, that’s not a bad idea, you know – the airing cupboard’s in a right state. Every time I open the door something falls out. I keep meaning to tidy it but I never get round to it, but she’d be bound to have a snoop, and then she’d just have to sort it out – she’d say she needed a towel or something. I might see what Dan thinks.’
But Dan says he’s knackered and anyway he thinks Doreen would sulk if they asked her to babysit, because she keeps saying she doesn’t see enough of him, which is fair enough, I suppose.
Mum says she thinks we’d better leave soon because Alfie is trying to work out how he can smuggle Eddie back to our house, so we walk home and have more sloping cake, and then just as Mum and Dad are leaving Mum says it’s been lovely having someone else do lunch, and she knew I could cook properly if I just concentrated. And maybe we should have Christmas at my house this year, because it’s all been so nice. I’m half pleased with t
his, and half appalled.
Alfie has now eaten so much he can barely move, and he watches telly lying flat out on the sofa, while Jim and I sort out the tea things.
‘I meant to ask you – you don’t fancy coming down again next weekend, do you? On Friday, so I can go out?’
‘What for?’
‘Oh just a meal, with one of the garden people.’
‘Single?’
‘Yes.’
‘Male and under eighty?’
‘Yes.’
‘Ooh. A real live man on the horizon. Which is why you don’t want Mum babysitting, I take it?’
‘Yes.’
‘What does he do, then?’
‘He’s a herb-dealer.’
‘Round my way that’s a euphemism for the stuff you don’t inhale if you want to be President.’
‘Well, round here it means real herbs. He’s called Harry, and he’s got a dog called Basil.’
‘Sounds like a right wally to me. Harry the Herb Man. What car does he drive?’
‘You are such a boy. An old jeep. And anyway I’m not sure if he’s really my type. It’s just dinner.’
‘And what’s that then, your type? A total wanker like Mork?’
‘It’s only dinner. Honestly, I wish I hadn’t asked you now.’
‘All right, all right, keep your hair on. I’m sure I can do it, but I’ll call you tomorrow when I’m in the office and I can check the diary. And I won’t breathe a word to Mum. I just want you to have a bit of fun, you know. I was only teasing.’
‘I do have fun. Just because I’m not shagging my way round the village doesn’t mean I’m not having fun. Talking of which, did you ever see that woman from Lola’s office?’
‘Yes. Bit of a handful really, but I got loads of info on your Lola: and she sounds a total nightmare. Did you know she actually drew round one of her kids’ feet, and then faxed it through to the office so her PA could go and get him some new shoes? The poor girl had to take the fax into John Lewis and get them to measure it, and then she threw a fit apparently because the shoes weren’t trendy enough.’