Summertime (3 page)

‘God, you're so embarrassing. None of my friends have mothers who talk to themselves and ban Nintendo.
Why can't you get a grip on your own life and stop interfering in mine?'

Very impressed by his astute summing-up of me, but dismayed not to be in the position of power. Have to regain the moral high ground. But how?

March 23rd

My position as mistress of any high ground, moral or literal, is becoming pronounced fantasy. Am paralysed with agonising pain in my foot, and cannot even drag myself to the doctor who is two miles away. The first twinges occur at lunchtime, after a strenuous morning in the garden with The Beauty. Our mission there is to glean lovely branches and wild flowers to create posies for the bedrooms and magnificent displays of twig and leaf for downstairs. However, it would seem that I have done this once too often. The garden looks as though a plague of locusts has visited it: all the trees are hunched and defensive, lifting their branches out of harm's way and well above my secateurs, and the few crocuses and grape hyacinths that have bothered to flower so far have been chewed by the hens and cower, soggy and downtrodden, in the mud. Am forced to hop and leap in order to grab a branch of pussy
willow (not yet in leaf but in the warmth of the house it soon will be), and this may have contributed to the afternoon's foot disorder. The Beauty is entranced by flower-picking, and is clad as a mini land girl in pink shorts, knee socks and a T-shirt with a hula-hula girl on it which David sent her. Can't help feeling that she could do with tights and a cardigan as well, but bitter experience has taught me not to try to elaborate on her sartorial decisions once she sallies forth from her bedroom.

‘Mummy. Do a wee like this,' she suggests, pulling her shorts down and squatting behind some daffodils in a very earthy fashion. Am saved from joining her by Lowly and Rags, who bustle over and lick her boisterously so she topples into long wet grass. Back in the boot room removing outer garments and tripping into the dogs' water bowl, I experience the first twinge of pain in my foot, then immediately forget about it in the search for vases, followed by the washing of same to erase terrible cabbage smell and internal coating of green slime. The Beauty has removed the heads from the few primroses and crocuses we have picked, so decide to go for the Zen look and float them in saucers of water. Playschool simplicity of this form of arrangement very pleasing. By the time all the flowers are roughly where they should be, and the house smells green and fresh like spring but still looks like
a rubbish dump, the foot has taken over, and I hobble to the telephone to beg my dear kind friend Vivienne to bring the children home from school for me.

The doctor arrives at the same moment as the boys and Vivienne, and far from adopting the bedside manner and extreme discretion we all expect from our GP, he grins broadly and announces to the room at large that I have gout. I am outraged, mainly because Vivienne, and my mother who has materialised quite unnecessarily, both start giggling. The doctor giggles too, eyeing Vivienne appreciatively, drinking in her rippling copper hair and short skirt above long, gout-free legs.

‘I can't have gout. I don't drink port, and I'm not old.'

‘Yes you are, Mum, you're very old,' says Felix, clearly believing these to be words of comfort, and a reasonable explanation for my condition. Giggling reaches a crescendo, my mother leading the field, delighted with this evidence of my depravity outstripping hers.

‘You'll have to wear slippers and carry a walking stick,' she crows, and The Beauty takes this as an order, and fetches my beautiful new sandals and an old cane with a curved handle from the chimney pot in the hall where all cricket bats, tennis racquets and other sporting implements live. She looks very much
like Little Bo Peep with a shepherd's crook, as the stick is taller than she is.

Find myself having to gaze at the floor and set my jaw to stop hysterical laughter or tears brimming over. Fortunately, Giles is hanging around, swinging on the Aga rail. He is hungry and also single-minded.

‘Mum, if you can't walk, shall I make our supper?'

What a marvellous, responsible child I have produced, ready to step into the breach and be helpful.

‘Oh darling, would you? You can have whatever you like if we've got it.'

Just about to turn smug expression towards my mother and Vivienne, and set up camp on high ground, when he adds, ‘Great. We'll have pizza and ice cream, but I'll only do it if you let us play on the Nintendo afterwards. For an hour.' Outmanoeuvred. Last vestiges of strength depart and I feebly nod agreement, hoping none of the adults have noticed the depths to which I have sunk.

Smile sadly but bravely at the doctor as he leaves, hoping he will reconsider his verdict if I am saintly. He scarcely notices me, however, as he is buzzing around Vivienne. He shakes hands with her three times, looking at her as he tells me, ‘You may find it improves tomorrow. If not, maybe a friend could bring you into the surgery and we'll sort you out with
some medication.' He breaks off, scribbles something then looks over his glasses at Vivienne.

‘You're a violin teacher, aren't you?' he says, without preamble. Vivienne nods, and the doctor is at a loss. He turns briskly back to me. ‘Gout is a serious condition, so don't leave it without treatment. And no chocolate over Easter.' He wags his finger as if I am Bessie Bunter and Parson Woodforde rolled into one, and departs. I am hard put not to hurl my stick at him. Only prevent myself because I do not wish to seem any more dyspeptic than I already do. Wish my mother and Vivienne would stop carousing and become solicitous.

Later

After several hours in which I did not become resigned to having gout, I am miraculously healed. Don't know if it was the arrival of Rose, or the delicious behaviour of the children who put The Beauty to bed, and put on their pyjamas without being asked, or if it was the vile green stew of various herbs my mother concocted, or indeed the massaging effect of velvet-soled sandals, but something has cured me and I must send a postal order to Lourdes forthwith, or at least go to church. Church is probably easier, especially as Easter Sunday is the day after tomorrow.

Vivienne, my mother, Rose and I have eaten fabulous
supper of mussels and brown bread. Mussels made even more delicious by the fact that I had no hand in their endless scraping, but sat and talked to Rose about my very unfulfilled New Year's resolution to find a new career, while my mother and Vivienne slaved over the sink, removing mussel beards and managing not to mention the word gout once. Rose and I decide that with training, I could become a part-time driving instructor, but otherwise am only qualified as a housekeeper, and not if they came and looked at the state of my laundry and storage cupboards. David telephones. I ask him if he thinks I would be better as a driving instructor or a housekeeper. ‘Neither,' he says without hesitation. ‘You should find something where you can make use of your skills.' There is something about his voice on the telephone that makes me feel we are having a steamy, intimate conversation, even when we are just talking about the weather in Bermuda.

Have to remember I am in the room with others. Cough and ask him, ‘Well, what are they, and how do I fit them in between school hours and term time?'

He considers for a few expensive moments, then suggests, ‘What about being a lifeguard?'

Choke with laughter and find I am missing him painfully, unless it's the gout. ‘Oh, come back soon, we miss you badly. I'm wearing the shoes right now.'

‘Well, if all goes to schedule, we'll be finished by the end of the month, so I'll be back then. I've got to go now, I should be at work.' He sighs, then speaks again, and it is as if he is right here, next to my ear. ‘Anyway sweetheart, what else are you—' There is a beep and a click and he is cut off.

March 25th

Easter Sunday dawns with an uncanny heatwave. Bright sunshine beams in through all windows, highlighting the Plimsoll line of fingermarks around the house at Beauty level. She and Theo, Rose's son, have been up since first light, and show no signs of flagging by church time, as they are engrossed in creating a small tinker homestead inside the dog's wooden castle. This folly, which David built a year ago when Lowly was small, fills the boot room and most of the hall. Lowly is now much too big to fit through any of its doors, but can be brought in over the battlements if bribed with cheese-flavoured crisps, his favourite form of nourishment. Anyway, The Beauty has made it her own, and I find her inside, with Theo and two pairs of chocolate ears, which suggest that bunny bodies have been devoured. Giles appears at another entrance as I
squat and reach in, trying to grab a limb of either The Beauty or Theo, who have tucked themselves into the labyrinthine heart of the castle.

‘Mum, please can I miss church, I just want to finish my book in peace.' Giles has put on his most long-suffering and yet wounded expression. I know just how he feels. In fact, I feel the same. Decide to be generous-spirited to him, as self must be sacrificed anyway.

‘All right darling, go back to bed. But could you crawl in and get The Beauty out first?'

Squeaky laughter issues from the castle, followed by a cheery farewell. ‘Bye bye Mummy, see you soon. Theo's such fun, isn't he?'

Suddenly perk up. I won't take her. She can stay here with Rose and eat chocolate. Church will be a sanctuary. A whole hour without toddlers or washing-up. See the light. This must be how people get religion. Find vast brown tweed coat of David's and put it on over my nightie. No time to get dressed now, and anyway, nightie is my favourite garment at the moment, as it is the only thing I have ever managed to dye, and is newly papal purple thanks to Dylon machine wash. Cannot believe that I have allowed so many years of my life to pass without experiencing the joy of dyeing clothes. In fact, I would have continued in this drab and grey existence, but
for the happy accident which caused The Beauty to place a tub of dye in my shopping basket as I was selecting nails at the hardware shop. Great excitement and a ceremonial dipping followed, with each of us supplying one garment. Felix chose his school games shirt, and hurled it in before I noticed.

When discovered, he was defiant: ‘It's the only white thing I've got. And anyway, it's too small so I can't wear it for school.' Giles tried not to join in at first, but was seduced by the velvet richness of the colour in the sink and brought a pair of boxer shorts to the dip.

‘Fancy pants, fancy pants,' carolled The Beauty and Felix when we pulled the now violet underwear out on a wooden spoon.

The Beauty brought two dolls, a nappy, three vests and a pair of shorts to the laundry area, and managed to get all of them in and submerged without me noticing. Keep finding ultraviolet dolls lying around the garden looking as if they have had too much sun, or Ribena, or something. The nappy looks wonderful though. We dried it on the Aga and sent it to the manufacturers with a note saying,
Please can we have more like this one?
Have not yet received a reply.

Church with just Felix is a treat and we sing loudly and tunelessly at every opportunity. On the way out I force him to lend me his pocket money for the collection, and become convinced that a halo
is budding above my head. Am moved to sing a Christmas carol in the car on the way home:

Joy to the world

And joy to you.

Particularly lovely to be singing as we whisk between hedgerows basking in the sunlit morning. Curling primrose leaves rise, new and crisp and green, from the banks, and also vivid spears of daffodil foliage and yellow trumpet flowers.

Joy to the world

And joy to you—

Erupting apparently out of the tarmac is a vast chrome-fronted truck; its bonnet rears above us and my foot flails for the brake. The truck swerves, tyres shrieking, engine roaring; my windscreen fills with bull bars and car bonnet, and all I can think is that this is just like the Dinosaur Death Run game in both mood and soundtrack. Felix bounces up in his seat, shouting excitedly, ‘Look Mum, it's a Big Foot. Cool. Can we have one? Oww! Stop twisting my arm, we're quite safe, you know.'

Find I have involuntarily closed my eyes, and grasped Felix with one hand while wrestling to steer
with the other, and maintaining a stream of foul language: ‘Shit! Buggering hell and buckets of blood. Felix, are you sure you're all right? WATCH OUT!'

We have crashed. Not fatally, as we were only going about ten miles an hour, but firmly. Felix whistles under his breath. ‘Yes Mum, I'm fine. Did you mean to do that handbrake turn? It was really excellent.'

The front end of the car is buried in the grassy bank, as if sniffing keenly at primroses, and the body of the car has slewed at ninety degrees across the road. The same has happened to the purple and yellow truck, but the front of his vehicle is facing the other way, so the driver-side windows are next to each other. We both lean out. I am shaking with shock, he is grinding his teeth, flaring his nostrils and flashing his eyes dangerously. In a minute I expect he will begin yanking his hair out by the roots. I say the first thing that comes into my head.

‘Well I don't know why you're looking so angry. You could have killed us. And it's Easter Sunday.'

This is the wrong thing to say.

‘Mum, it was your fault,' mutters Felix. ‘You were on the wrong side of the road.'

Fortunately, the man does not hear this vital witness evidence as he is struggling to open his door and get out. This is impossible, as the vehicles are too close to one another. He hisses, ‘Oh, for Christ's sake,'
and slides over to the other side to get out of the passenger door. Hear him from beyond the truck cursing, ‘This is absurd. How the hell did we get into this mess?'

He reappears in the driver's seat, and I notice that his eyebrows are long and thick and join in the middle like the bristles of an old-fashioned carpet sweeper. No wonder he looks so bad-tempered. He is also unshaven and has wild black hair sprouting around a thinly covered crown, and a very earthy-looking jacket with no sleeves, just trails of unravelling string around the armholes. Presume he is a son of the pig farmer down the road, and make a suggestion.