The Secret Life of a Slummy Mummy (26 page)

This explanation seems to satisfy her, and I sense her moving on to new territory.

‘So, Lucy, when are you going to get a proper job?’ she asks.

‘I have a proper job,’ I say. ‘Looking after children is a proper job.’

‘It is unpaid hard labour,’ she says.

‘I couldn’t agree with you more,’ I say. ‘But I would have thought, given your political leanings, that you would be the last person to judge a person’s worth based on the size of their pay packet. Just because I don’t earn any money doesn’t mean what I’m doing has no value.’

‘I can’t believe that a daughter of mine has chosen to be a housewife,’ she says, her mouth twisting as though the word has a bitter taste.

‘Actually, Mum, part of the problem lies with feminists like you, because in overemphasising the importance of women working, you totally devalued domestic life,’ I say. ‘In fact, you’re indirectly responsible for the current schism between working and non-working mothers.’

She looks a little taken aback.

‘Fred is at nursery now, you must have more time on your hands,’ she persists.

‘But then there’s the holidays,’ I say. ‘Do you know how much money I would have to earn to pay for childcare?’ She ignores that argument.

‘What I mean is, when are you going to do something that involves using your brain?’ she says.

‘Well, that’s a different question. I do use my brain, only in a less obvious more lateral way,’ I say. ‘Anyway, it’s not that I left work, work left me. If I could find something part-time that was compatible with having children, I would do it.’

‘It’s such a waste,’ she says, warming up to the subject with familiar zeal.

‘Did you know that mothers with children who are out of the workforce for more than five years are less employable than East European immigrants who can’t speak English?’ I say. ‘Didn’t you see that in the paper last week? No one wants to give us jobs, at least not the kind that I would enjoy. There’s a dilemma for you and your feminist cronies to debate in the pub.’

‘But do you feel fulfilled, Lucy?’ she persists. ‘Is it satisfying?’

One of my mother’s most endearing traits is her infinite curiosity about what motivates people, especially if their choices are at odds with her own. Her persistent line of questioning might appear critical, especially since she is a woman of strong opinions, but there is a childlike innocence to her approach, an unquenchable desire to really understand where someone else is coming from.

‘At the end of the day, I often feel as though I have achieved nothing,’ I say to her. ‘A successful day consists of maintaining the status quo. I have managed to get three children to and from school and nursery without significant mishap. I have cooked three meals, bathed three children, and read them all bedtime stories. When I compare that to what I was doing before, it seems absurd, especially since I don’t seem to get any better at it.’

‘But you are at ease with your children. I don’t think I ever felt that,’ she sighs.

Something in my pocket starts to beep.

‘What’s that?’ says my mother suspiciously.

‘Joe’s Tamagotchi,’ I say, taking out my son’s electronic pet and pressing a few buttons. ‘It needs feeding. I promised him I would look after it while he watches
The Sound of Music
.’

In the corner of the larder I spot a large shape covered with tin foil.

‘What’s that?’ I ask her.

‘Oh God, it’s the turkey, I’ve been so distracted by that woman that I’ve forgotten to put it in the oven,’ she says, removing the foil to reveal the huge, loose-skinned, bald bird beneath. Its colour and texture match her arms. ‘She’s won again.’

‘Why do you get so competitive with Petra?’ I ask wondrously. ‘Your culinary disasters are usually feted. It’s not as though anyone has any expectation of anything else.’

‘It’s difficult to explain,’ she says. ‘I suppose I measure myself against her and find myself lacking as a homemaker. Then I wonder if I did the right thing by my children.’

‘Of course you did,’ I say. ‘We’re no more than averagely fucked up. In fact, we’re slightly less than averagely fucked up. That’s a good outcome. Average is good. It prevents extremes.’

The door opens and Mark wanders in. He is eating a bag of crisps. ‘I’m anticipating a late lunch,’ he says.

‘More criticism,’ says my mother, flouncing out of the larder and back into the kitchen carrying the turkey.

Mark sits down in the chair that my mother has vacated and immediately steps on another mousetrap.

‘Shit. That hurt,’ he says, rubbing his big toe. He is wearing
a pair of thick hand-knitted socks that Petra made him for Christmas. The trap hangs limply at the end.

‘How are you, Lucy?’ Mark asks. ‘I’ve hardly had a moment to talk to you properly. You seem a little preoccupied,’ he says, taking off his sock to rub his toe.

‘Is that your professional assessment?’ I ask him. ‘Or are you simply trying to deflect attention to avoid any difficult questions about the whereabouts of your girlfriend and your lack of Christmas presents?’

‘They got left in London,’ he says looking guilty.

‘The presents or the girlfriend?’ I ask.

‘Both,’ he says. ‘But not in the same place. And that is significant. I got some trashy stuff for the boys at the service station. Anyway, let’s not talk about me.’

‘But I’m sure your stories are more interesting than mine,’ I say.

‘Do you want me to tell you what I think about Joe?’ he asks suddenly. ‘I promise I’m not trying to avoid awkward issues. I just thought that might be what you are worrying about.’

‘It’s one of a multitude of things on my mind,’ I say, softening. Mark has been an unerringly good and faithful uncle to our children. ‘Tell me what you think.’

‘I think that although he is displaying certain neurotic tendencies, there is little of the repetition and ritual that is the classic manifestation of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder,’ Mark says.

‘But what about all the worry during
The Sound of Music
and the shrinking?’ I ask.

‘That is a symptom of anxiety, of a deep-seated desire for things to stay the same, for predictability and routine in his life,’ says Mark. He has got up from the seat and is wandering
around the larder, lifting the lids off various containers and peering inside to see what lurks within. ‘The shrinking is more complicated. I think it has something to do with a desire to retreat from the world to a place where everything is safe and makes sense. He’s an unusually sensitive child. He’ll probably end up doing something creative.’

‘You don’t think it’s my fault? That my chaos has made him neurotic?’ I ask.

‘No, better to veer on the side of chaos than be too controlling,’ he says. ‘Behind an anxious child there often lurks a neurotic parent. Being a good mother depends on defining the right dose of devotion. Too little and the child wilts, too much and it is stifled.’

‘So you don’t think I need to go and see someone?’ I ask.

‘Basically, I think you need to accept that he is his father’s son,’ he says.

Mark is busy throwing out a maggot-infested container of rice that he has found on a shelf. Something beeps in my pocket again and I get out the Tamagotchi. But it is asleep, so I pull out my mobile phone from the back pocket of my jeans to check my messages and am shocked to see that there are three from Robert Bass, all sent much earlier this morning. ‘Want sex. Where are u?’ they all read.

This is hardly a logical extension of the approach made at the aquarium. I drop the phone in astonishment and it slides across the greasy floor towards my brother.

‘Just as well Mum didn’t serve this rice up to Petra,’ he says, bending down to pick up the phone. I rush over, but he is too fast. He can’t resist a peek at the screen and holds the phone high in the air, exploiting his height to advantage. Privacy is an alien concept to Mark. As a teenager, I had to hide my diary
underneath the floorboards in the bedroom to prevent him from reading it.

The expression on his face immediately darkens. He squints at the message, reading it again to be sure that he hasn’t misunderstood. Then he fiddles with the phone to look at the identity of the sender.

‘Who the fuck is SDD?’ he asks.

‘I don’t know,’ I say weakly.

‘He’s on your contacts list, otherwise his name wouldn’t come up,’ says Mark, looking at me suspiciously.

‘If you must know, it stands for “Sexy Domesticated Dad”,’ I say defensively.

‘Is he from one of those cleaning services where the men come and tidy your house naked?’ Mark asks.

The idea is so preposterous that I start to laugh.

‘Is that what’s putting you off married life in the suburbs?’ I ask him, giggling so much that I have to cross my legs.

And then, because I am so nervous about the message and my brother’s discovery, I find it difficult to stop and each time I try to start a serious explanation of what is going on, I laugh even more. I suddenly feel very much like his younger sister again, a feeling that hasn’t occurred very often in our relationship since I became the one with the husband and children and he became the serial dater, unable to make up his mind about which girlfriend he should marry.

Then the phone rings and Mark drops it on the floor. We both stare at it and I pick it up to answer the call.

‘Lucy, it’s me,’ says Robert Bass. ‘Look, I’m really sorry, I meant to send those texts to my wife but I must have put in your number by mistake. I hope you didn’t think, er, that, er . . .’ he splutters.

Trying not to sound too relieved, I say, ‘To be honest I prefer a more subtle approach.’ More spluttering. ‘You must be on my mind,’ he laughs weakly. He’s right. I can’t help feeling a little flattered. Then the line goes quiet. ‘Hello, hello, are you there?’ I ask.

‘Who are you speaking to?’ I hear his wife ask. ‘Who is on your mind? You might as well tell me, because all I have to do is look at your phone.’ The line goes dead. I have little time to consider the implications of this interruption, because my brother is standing over me with his hands on his hips.

‘Are you having an affair?’ asks Mark.

When we were younger, my brother’s attitude to my boyfriends ranged from dismissive, when the flirtation was unrequited, to surreptitiously protective when I embarked on a new relationship. He basically operated on the assumption that all men were as indiscriminately promiscuous as he was.

‘It’s because my mother is a feminist and we had too many au pairs to sleep with. I’m engaged in a kind of Oedipal revenge,’ he used to say. ‘Just remember, Lucy, men might talk the talk, but that doesn’t mean we’ll walk the walk.’

And then, against all better judgement, I find myself clearing a space on the windowsill, moving empty jars of coffee and dirty old milk bottles, and sitting down to tell Mark in detail the saga of Robert Bass. The innocent flirtation that ended in a flat kind of pass being made on a school trip. I can hear how ridiculous it all sounds as I tell it from beginning to end. He doesn’t interrupt and looks at me intently.

‘It’s not really a big deal,’ I say. ‘Nothing has happened.’

‘Do you find him attractive?’ he asks.

‘Yes, in the abstract,’ I admit cautiously.

‘Then it is a big deal, because he obviously fancies you.’

‘Do you really think he does?’

‘Don’t be so naive, Lucy. To believe otherwise is to engage in self-deception on a grand scale. You are deluding yourself to allow a situation where an affair can flourish. Frankly, I’m really surprised.’

‘Do you think I’m having a mid-life crisis?’ I ask him. ‘I thought that was a male prerogative.’

No,’ he laughs. ‘You have disconnected from Tom and rather than mending that short circuit you are looking for a new connection with someone else. But the answers won’t be found with this man. They lie within you.’

‘Don’t you think I could just have a small affair and then leave it all behind?’ I ask him.

‘Women are useless at that,’ he says. ‘And I don’t mean that makes it a negative quality. Women’s inability to separate emotion from sex is not a weakness, it is a strength. It fosters connection and mutual understanding. I have never understood why women view one-night stands and an ability to binge-drink as a sign of social progress. Why is it positive to adopt traits more commonly associated with men? Men would do better to become more like women. I’m speaking as someone who has found that particularly elusive.’

‘So what should I do?’ I ask.

‘Tell Tom,’ he says. ‘By allowing other people into the fantasy, you will minimalise the possibility of turning it into reality. And if you don’t tell him, then I will. You might be chalk and cheese, but largely your relationship works, and life is about much more than short-term pleasure-seeking, especially now that you have children. That’s why we are all so miserable. We’re obsessed by the quick hit, a couple of lines of coke to improve a party, a dirty fuck with a married woman.
But this separates us from who we are. It destroys our spirit rather than elevating it. Do you know the biggest growth area in my profession? Dealing with adolescent boys who have spent so much time surfing Internet porn that they are completely unable to relate to women sexually or emotionally. If you thought the men of your generation were fucked, then you should take a look at these kids. Being brought up on
Playboy
was an age of innocence.’

‘I don’t really see how this relates to me,’ I say tentatively. I am shocked at Mark’s outburst, not because of its content, but more because he generally tries to stay one step ahead of anything that might be construed as a belief system for fear of sounding like my mother. ‘Look, I’ll try and avoid him.’

‘What I am trying to say is that you need to be the author of your own destiny, Lucy. It is one of your worst traits, allowing things to happen around you as though you have no involvement in their outcome.’

‘That’s why I’m eating so much,’ I say. ‘The more I eat, the fatter I will get and then it will be impossible to have an affair with anyone.’

‘That’s not quite what I meant,’ he says. ‘But it could be interpreted as a small step in the right direction.’