More Than Just Mum

Scarlet groans. ‘Well, not everyone is a killjoy like you, Dad.’

Nick looks hurt at this accusation.

‘I am not a killjoy. I just can’t stand organised fun.’ He spits out the last two words like they’re putting him off his food. ‘I don’t need permission to have a good time.’

It is for this very reason that the Thompson family will never step over the boundaries of Center Parcs or anything Disney-related or indeed any campsite that has the audacity to offer entertainment of any kind. We did once visit Legoland when Dylan was younger, mostly because Nick was under the innocent illusion that it would just be about Lego bricks. The car journey home was mostly spent listening to him bang on about the ratio of activity to queuing time and the cost of a can of coke. The day only managed to avoid being a complete disaster because Dylan had quite a lot of birthday money to spend and Nick convinced him to buy a box that consisted of boring, grey Lego, which he then spent three solid days turning into a replica of something from Star Wars that Dylan wasn’t allowed to play with.

‘I think we’re going to Morocco,’ says Dylan, having finally swallowed his chicken. ‘That’s on your bucket list, isn’t it?’

‘We’re not going to Morocco,’ I say. ‘And what I actually wanted to—’

‘Not with any of you, anyway,’ adds Nick. ‘We’re going to wait until you’ve all left home and then me and your mum are going to have the holiday of a lifetime.’ His eyes glaze over slightly. ‘We’re going to shop in the souqs of Marrakech and hike in the Atlas Mountains and drink funky cold medina.’

He sings the last three words, wiggling his shoulders in what I can only assume is his interpretation of a hip-hop dance move.

Scarlet’s eyes narrow. ‘You do know that song is talking about date rape, don’t you? Medina was a drug that the guy put in people’s drinks to make them have sex with him because they didn’t like him.’ She holds up her hand and starts counting off on her fingers. ‘It’s all there in the lyrics, Dad. He thinks that girls should be with him just because he has nice clothes and it condones animal testing and it is totally transphobic.’

We both stare at her and I run through the song lyrics in my head. The dog doing the wild thing on his leg. Sheena. The comment about making sure that the girl is pure.

‘Scarlet’s right,’ I tell Nick, feeling shocked. ‘He drugs them. And we’ve been playing it to the kids since they were tiny.’

‘Exactly.’ Scarlet smacks her lips with relish. ‘What kind of parent forces their kids to listen to lyrics like that?’

‘And anyway, the medina that you’re thinking of is a part of some cities in North Africa,’ Dylan informs Nick. ‘The streets are like mazes and it’s really easy to get lost.’

‘Thanks,’ says Nick, nodding. ‘I’ll try to remember that.’

‘That song is ruined for me now,’ I mutter. ‘Forever.’

‘So if we’re not going to Morocco and we’re not going to Disneyland then where are we going?’ asks Benji, waving his hand to get our attention back on the topic.

Which is absolutely not the topic that I actually want to discuss.

‘We’re not going anywhere,’ I say firmly. ‘The announcement that I want to make has nothing to do with any holiday.’

‘Bloody hell, you’re not pregnant, are you?’ asks Dylan and there is silence as four pairs of eyes bore into my stomach.

‘No, I’m not!’ I snap. ‘And Nick, you shouldn’t be looking so panicked, for god’s sake.’

‘So – if you’re not having a baby, which I’m glad about by the way because babies are annoying and Dogger wouldn’t like it, and we’re not going on holiday, then what are we doing?’ asks Scarlet.

‘It’s not what we’re doing, it’s what I’m doing,’ I tell her and everyone puts down their knives and forks and I finally have their unadulterated attention. Because I don’t do anything without any of them. Not ever.

‘I feel like we should have a drum roll.’ Scarlet raises one eyebrow. ‘You’re really building this up, Mum. I’ve got places to be this afternoon.’

I frown. ‘What places? And speaking of which, have you been bunking off school? Because I’ve been told by two different people now that you’ve been spotted out and about in places that you shouldn’t be.’

Scarlet inhales sharply and turns to glower at Dylan. ‘What people? As if I can’t guess.’

Dylan shrugs. ‘Wasn’t me, so you can stop giving me the evil eye,’

I bang my hand on the table. ‘Scarlet! Have you or have you not been hanging out in town when you should be at school? This is incredibly serious, you know. You’re supposed to be getting an education, not wasting these precious years shopping and lazing about in the park.’

‘I’d probably get more of an education in the park than I would at our crappy school,’ she mutters.

She does have a point. Not that I’m prepared to concede it.

‘Scarlet’s not daft enough to skive school,’ states Nick. ‘So it must have been someone else who looks like her. Anyway, about this big announcement, Hannah.’

‘God. Imagine looking like Scarlet.’ Dylan rocks back on his chair and smirks at his sister.

‘At least I’ve got all my own teeth,’ she snarls back.

Dylan laughs. ‘So have I. Is that the best you’ve got? You’re slacking, Scarlet – maybe you should start attending school a bit more.’

Scarlet’s growl of anger is drowned out by Nick’s voice. ‘Your mother is trying to tell us something and I for one am very keen to hear what she has to say. So either be quiet or you can leave the room.’ He turns to face me. ‘Hannah. Please ignore our horribly behaved offspring and tell me about this announcement.’

I clear my throat, making sure that I have the full attention of the room.

‘What I want to talk to you all about is the fact that I have made a big decision,’ I declare, rather grandly. ‘And my decision is that I am going to be getting a new job, which I’m really, really excited about.’

‘Thank god for that,’ murmurs Nick and when I look across the table, he is holding his hands together and looking up at the ceiling, as if he’s praying. With any luck he’ll notice that two of the spotlights are out and finally get around to changing the bulbs.

‘I’m not going back to full-time teaching,’ I say, just to clarify the situation. ‘Probably not, anyway.’

Nick’s face falls. ‘What are you going to be doing then?’ he asks. ‘Do you actually have a new job or is this whole thing still in the let’s-talk-about-it-for-the-next-six-months stage?’

I frown at him. ‘Don’t be like that, Nick. This is a fledgling idea and I don’t need your negativity to squash it before I’ve even begun.’

He gives me a firm look. ‘So it’s not going to be like the time that you watched a television programme about being a paramedic and decided that you could retrain during your maternity leave?’

It’s unfair of him to bring that up. Dylan was a few months old and I was sleep deprived and the fact that I can’t stand the sight of blood seemed like a trivial point. I attended one first-aid training session and had to leave at the coffee break. And right now, when I am flushed with the excitement of a new project, I do not need reminding of my past mistakes. Besides, this is going to be nothing like that.

‘This is going to be nothing like that,’ I inform Nick, haughtily. ‘This is going to be an actual serious venture.’

‘So what are you going to do, Mum?’ asks Dylan. ‘Are there seconds of potatoes?’

Nick passes him the bowl. ‘Help yourself. And yes, what are you going to do, Hannah?’

‘That’s what I want to talk to you all about,’ I say, trying to keep the exasperation out of my voice. ‘I wanted to see if you have any ideas.’

In my head, they all take a moment to consider my talents and attributes before offering helpful and exciting job suggestions.

In reality, they react before the words are barely out of my mouth.

‘You could work at the supermarket,’ says Dylan. ‘You’re always saying that it’s your second home.’

‘One of my friends has started doing Saturday shifts at Nando’s and he gets free chicken,’ Scarlet tells me. ‘You could see if they’ve got any vacancies there.’

‘Mmmm,’ groans Dylan appreciatively, in his best Homer Simpson voice. ‘Free chicken.’

I force a smile. ‘I was rather thinking of a job that would utilise my years of experience. You know, something where my transferable skills will really come into their own.’

‘So we need to identify your transferable skills,’ says Nick, looking thoughtful.

The room goes silent.

‘Oh, come on!’ I break after thirty seconds. ‘I’ve not exactly spent the last twenty years sitting on my backside. I have tons of expertise.’

The faces in front of me are now demonstrating their best thinking poses. Nick’s eyes are looking up and to the left as he tries to retrieve memories of my brilliance. Scarlet is biting her finger and staring at me while Dylan is scratching his head and scrunching up his mouth. Only Benji looks confident and that’s because he is making the most of their distraction to load his plate with more food.

None of which is particularly reassuring or complimentary.

Eventually, after an interminable hush, Dylan speaks.

‘You could always be a party planner?’ It’s more of a question than a statement.

‘What does a party planner do?’ asks Benji, looking up from his plate.

Scarlet rolls her eyes. ‘They clean toilets,’ she tells him.

‘Seriously?’ Benji looks puzzled. ‘So why are they called—’

‘Oh my god! Why are you so retarded?’ groans Scarlet, slapping the palm of her hand against her forehead.

‘Don’t call your brother retarded,’ growls Nick.

‘The clue is in the name,’ Dylan tells Benji. ‘They plan parties, genius.’

‘Don’t call your brother a genius,’ I snap, not really thinking about what I’m saying. ‘And becoming a party planner isn’t really the direction that I’m thinking of going in.’

‘You are good at organising things,’ says Nick. I stare at him suspiciously to see if this is a roundabout way of saying that I’m bossy, but his smile seems genuine enough so I let it go.

Maybe I should consider it, as it’s the first vaguely sensible suggestion that I’ve been given. I let the possibility percolate round my brain, imagining myself floating around a fancy venue, ensuring that the champagne fountain and the table decorations are all in place. I could do that, no problem. But I bet the party planner doesn’t actually ever get to enjoy the festivities. I’ll probably be in the back, sleeves rolled up and doing the washing up or sorting the blocked toilets or dealing with rowdy partygoers who don’t know when they’ve had enough of a good thing. So basically doing what I have to do at home.

‘How illegal is it to punch someone in self-defence?’ asks Scarlet casually, whipping my thoughts away from my doomed party planner career. ‘Is it okay if they start it?’

I put down my cutlery and give my daughter a concerned look. ‘Why do you want to know? Has something happened?’

Scarlet shrugs. ‘Just wondering,’ she mumbles around a mouthful of potato.

And then Benji knocks over the gravy jug and in the ensuing carnage, I push any ridiculous thoughts of party planning or new careers to the recesses of my mind.

Chapter 8

Benji has a football match today and my mother has kindly agreed to go and stand on the freezing cold touchline and cheer him on. This has the added benefit that when I finally stagger into the house, laden with twenty thousand books that need marking by next Monday, she is sitting at the kitchen table and the house has an air of calm that is non-existent whenever Dylan and Scarlet are here on their own.

‘Good day, Hannah?’ she asks, grimacing as I dump my bags onto the floor. ‘You should get yourself one of those tartan shopping-trolley things. You’re going to give yourself a hernia, going on like that.’

I give her a look and plonk myself down into the seat opposite her.

‘Have you got one, then?’

Mum shudders. ‘Good god, no! They’re for pensioners. I wouldn’t be seen dead dragging one of those round with me.’

‘Yet you think I should get one.’ I start massaging the back of my neck in a pathetic attempt to ease out some of the knots. ‘How was the football match?’

‘Bloody arctic.’ She looks around, checking that we’re alone. ‘You are aware that Benji is totally abysmal at sport, aren’t you?’

I nod. ‘Yep.’

He takes after me, bless his two uncoordinated left feet. I am still waiting for the right sport to present itself to me. I had a brief moment of hopefulness when Nick bought me flashy new trainers and some spanx-like running shorts for my last birthday, but sadly it seems that having all the gear does not counter the fact that I am not built for aerobic activity.

‘Which raises the question: why was he chosen to participate in the match in the first place? You can’t be telling me that he’s the best that the school has to offer?’

‘Of course he isn’t,’ I tell her, slipping off my shoes and wondering if it’s too early to open the wine. ‘It’s equality, isn’t it?’

Mum looks confused. ‘What is? Letting the rubbish kids play instead of the good ones?’

I wince. ‘Don’t let him hear you say that. And it’s just how it is these days. There’d be an uproar if teachers only ever chose the talented kids to represent the school.’

‘Why?’ Mum seems genuinely interested, so even though I’m tired and I really can’t be bothered to talk about anything even remotely related to education, I try to explain.

‘It’s different to how it was when you or I were at school,’ I say. ‘Everything has to be fair. Benji has a right to play football, even if he is a little bit crap.’

Mum frowns. ‘Well yes, he should be allowed to kick a ball around in the privacy of his own garden, where nobody else has to witness his lack of skill. But is it actually fair to let him play in a match? If anything, I’d say the kindest thing would be to keep him as far away from a football pitch as humanly possible.’

‘You’re probably right.’ I let my gaze wander around the kitchen, hoping to solve the conundrum of what we’re supposed to be having for supper. ‘But it’s a moot point now anyway. He won’t be chosen again until next season.’

Mum tuts. ‘Well, I think it’s absolutely ridiculous. All this pretending that anybody can do anything. It’ll only lead to disappointment in later life. Kids today need a few home truths.’

The kitchen door crashes open and a ball comes flying into the room, followed seconds later by an exuberant Benji.

‘He shoots! He scores!’ he yells, skidding to a halt by the table. ‘You should have seen me today, Mum!’

‘Here he is!’ My mother beams at her youngest grandchild. ‘The Player of the Day himself!’

I stare at her. What happened to a few home truths?

Benji giggles. ‘It’s not Player of the Day, silly,’ he tells her. ‘It’s Man of the Match.’

Then his face falls. ‘Only I didn’t get it. I never get it.’ He turns to me. ‘Jasper McKenzie was Man of the Match again. For like, the gazillionth time. It’s not fair.’

I shrug, thinking about what Mum was just saying. ‘Well, it probably is fair,’ I tell Benji. ‘If he played really well then he deserves to get the title.’

‘That football coach wouldn’t know talent if it kicked him in the face,’ protests my mother. ‘Honestly. I thought that Jasper McKenzie child was nothing but a glorified thug. And what’s more important? Being able to kick a ball in a straight line or being a nice person?’

‘In this particular context, I’d say that kicking a ball is probably what they’re looking for,’ I venture, but Mum has already pulled Benji towards her and is murmuring platitudes and reassurances about how, if it were up to her, he’d be Man of the Match every single time he set foot on the pitch.

*

Once Benji has been placated and sent off to finish his homework and I have managed to find some tins of tomatoes lurking at the back of the cupboard, Mum stands up and reaches for her bag.

‘Thanks for helping me out today,’ I say. ‘I really appreciate it, Mum.’

She walks across the kitchen and gives me a hug. ‘I’m worried about you, Hannah,’ she tells me. ‘Is everything all right?’

And I want nothing more than to sink my head onto her shoulder and tell her that no, I am not all right. I feel like I’m splashing about in the middle of the ocean, searching desperately for a life raft while just behind me is a luxury cruise liner where everyone I know is relaxing and laughing and drinking exotic cocktails with those little paper umbrellas that I really, really love.

But I can’t tell my mother that I am miserable and all at sea because I want a cocktail umbrella. It’s self-indulgent and stupid and utter, utter middle-class angst. I cannot tell the woman who brought me up all on her own, sacrificing her own wants and needs to ensure that I had good Clarks school shoes, that I feel adrift.

Instead, I give her a squeeze and plaster a big smile on my face. ‘I’m fine, Mum. Just a bit tired, that’s all.’

She gives me a piercing look and I know that she isn’t fooled.

‘It’s okay to ask for some help, now and again,’ she says. ‘I know how hard it can be when your kids start to get older and you’re trying to juggle several hundred things all at once. It makes your brain hurt!’

‘I don’t mind the juggling.’ It’s true, I really don’t. I’m an expert juggler. My skills are so brilliant that I could run away and join the circus, if I so desired. ‘I just wish that at least one of the balls had my name on it.’

Mum laughs. ‘Well, that’s not so difficult,’ she tells me. ‘If you really want to juggle your own ball then you’re going to have to write your name on it yourself!’ She takes her coat off the back of the chair. ‘And my advice? Use an indelible pen then the buggers can’t rub it off when you’re not looking.’

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