Young Wives' Tales (45 page)

I’m very conscientious about recycling so I spend a moment or two wondering if the waxy cardboard party plates can be recycled or if they will contaminate a whole container of painstakingly gathered paper.

Lucy interrupts my thoughts.

‘Do you need a hand with clearing up?’

The novelty of this question stuns me. Why is she trying to be helpful? It’s not her style.

‘No thank you. You and Auriol can go home if you want. I’m sure Peter will be finished playing soon and then he’ll follow you.’

I realize I’m as good as evicting her and this comment is borderline rude. So shoot me.

‘Oh, it’s OK. I don’t mind hanging around. Auriol is playing with the Xbox too. She loves being here with the boys.’

I stare at Lucy suspiciously. What
is
her game?

She takes me at my word when I say that I don’t need her help and she flops on to a stool at the breakfast bar. She is about to light up but I inform her that we have a no smoking policy in our house, a fact that she must be aware of – I can only surmise that my rules mean nothing to her. I dance around her, scooping up discarded cake and used napkins, I mop up previously undetected spillages and fold away the deckchairs that I dragged out of the shed earlier today. There are some women who clean up and others that make mess. It’s just a fact.

‘The boys seemed to enjoy the party. You’re very good at all of this, Rose. You are marvellous at keeping
children focused. You get their interest but maintain discipline. You have such a knack. I do wonder how you do it.’

I think this is the first time Lucy has bestowed a compliment on me,
ever
, although I’m often complimentary about something Lucy is wearing, or her hair colour. I even found it in me to be nice about her exquisite engagement ring. I stare at her and she meets my gaze, uncompromisingly. I’m not sure whether she means I am good at mopping up after young boys, or throwing parties or being a mother, and anyway I’m unsure whether she meant it as a genuine accolade. The way she waved her hand around my kitchen as she spoke was characteristically elegant, almost majestic and therefore seemed dismissive. I can’t deduce if she’s being facetious. Possibly. Probably. Since when has she had any interest in stimulating and managing children?

‘Discipline isn’t a knack.’I manage to inject the word with the original derision that she had mustered. ‘It’s a skill and it’s hard work.’

‘Have you ever had days when it just goes wrong, however hard you try?’

Oh yes. There have been times, when the boys were younger, when all efforts of persuasion, bribe or threat proved useless. When the children hit one another once too often, broke things through deliberate malice and relentlessly spat their food on to the table then, once or twice, I found myself losing all sense of perspective and dignity.

There were moments when I wondered whether I
was any good at being a mother and whether, if Peter was still around, the boys would continue to behave so dreadfully. With him, maybe I’d have had the strength to battle, or at the very least I’d have had someone to curl up on the settee with, at the end of the day; someone who would congratulate me for getting through the day.

I’d rather eat ground glass than confess as much to Lucy.

‘Mostly I try to reason with them, although twin boys aren’t always especially reasonable beings. I had no choice: by the time the twins were four years old they were physically unmanageable, they weighed over three stone apiece, and I found that the only way to get them to do anything or go anywhere was to solicit their cooperation. I don’t slap and I find that I spend rather more time on the time-out step than either of the boys but at least it’s peaceful there. Yelling has never worked with the twins. They are too confident in my love to take my anger for anything more than an elaborate pantomime. If I ranted they would laugh, which was often the defuse we needed.’

Other times they would simply ignore me, driving my fury up a notch. I’m not generous enough to share this bit with Lucy.

When I pause I fully expect her to launch into her own monologue. Lucy has advice on everything. I’m surprised when she remains mute. I can’t believe that
Lucy
is so thoroughly rapt by something
I
have to say.
I can only deduce that Auriol is being a monster at home and Lucy has finally understood that she can’t simply address the problem by hiring nanny after nanny after nanny. Funny, because I’ve always found Auriol to be rather biddable – certainly by comparison to my boys.

‘Sometimes I try everything and nothing seems to work. I run out of ideas and don’t know where to find the answers,’says Lucy.

I stare at Lucy and see something that in any other woman I would identify as desperation or vulnerability. I must be mistaken. I look closer and try to see frustration or a lack of patience, things I can more comfortably attribute to Lucy.

I continue, ‘Motherhood is enormous. It’s an endless outpouring of love. Children want, demand and need every single ounce of your energy, enthusiasm, imagination and patience. Then, when you are completely and utterly wrung dry and out of resource, they want some more. The miracle is ninety-nine times out of a hundred we find more to give.’

Lucy’s face sinks. I fight the urge to mop it up with the other party spillages. She looks devastated. No doubt she realizes that whatever I say next, whatever secret I’m about to share on good discipline methods for children, she lacks the raw materials.

‘Do you want a glass of wine?’I offer. She nods.

I pour us one each. I’ve been totally miserable since the wedding reception. I’ve felt unfairly burdened by
yet another of Lucy’s mess-ups. Seeing her spirits dampened as she sits at my breakfast bar has perked me up. Suddenly, I feel quite cheerful.

‘You think there’s a secret, don’t you, Lucy? Something that you haven’t been clued into just yet? But you assume that once you are clued in the whole mother-thing will be a piece of cake. That’s why you are bothering to talk to me.’Lucy doesn’t deny it. She’s too brazen. ‘Well, you’re right,’I add.

Lucy leans closer to me. She looks excited. She’s desperate for a solution. No doubt she thinks I’m about to tell her that you can buy discipline in a pot, just as she buys her expensive face cream that wards off old age.

‘The secret is that most of the time, most of us like being needed in that all-consuming way. Most of the time, most of us wouldn’t change a thing. I often hear people say that kids can be cruel or hideous, which is true. But usually given the correct circumstances kids are loving, funny, honest and kind. And they have soft skin, which feels indescribably delicious when they wrap you in a careless hug. On balance motherhood works for me.’

Lucy looks as though she is swallowing something very distasteful; cold sprouts and mouldy bread come to mind.

‘But there are bad days, Lucy. There are times when it seems that motherhood is just another name for failure. I remember when they were about four, old enough to know better, and they didn’t want to walk
home from the library. I had no stroller by then and no car with me. There was an unexpected downpour and suddenly we were surrounded by inches-deep puddles but there was no sign of a cab. The boys lay, like dead weights, in the wet high street and no amount of reasonable discussion, or coercion or sweeteners, could move them. Just that once I resorted to pretty much dragging them along the street. Both of them wailing and kicking. Henry biting me, Sebastian punching me. All of us screaming, insanely. The boys forgot the incident once we were home and they were furnished with milk and biscuits. I cried all night.’

‘You allow things to affect you too deeply, Rose,’says the Ice Queen.

I shoot her a look which I hope communicates that I don’t want her opinion. I continue.

‘I cried because I hated you and I hated Peter but most of all I hated myself. I’ve never hated the boys. I still loved them. I pitied them their inability to express themselves reasonably. I pitied their tired bodies. Do you understand what I’m saying, Lucy? It’s not easy. Motherhood is not easy. You have to accept that. That’s the secret. That’s what makes it worthwhile.’

We sit in silence listening to the kitchen clock ticking and the sound effects from the boys’Xbox game drifting through from the sitting room. I stare at my glass of wine and wonder if it was my licence to tell her I sometimes hated her. I sometimes hate her. The strangest thing is I hardly care. Eventually, it is Lucy who breaks the quiet.

‘You think I’m a terrible mother, don’t you, Rose?’

‘Since when have you cared what I think?’

‘Some of the things you’ve just said make sense. I’ve been coming to the same conclusions myself lately.’

She sounds self-righteous and conceited. I can’t stand it a moment longer.

‘Is that while you are smoking a post-coital cigarette with Joe?’

Lucy doesn’t get the chance to reply because at that moment Peter walks into the kitchen. He and Auriol already have their coats on. He’s holding Lucy’s open so she can slip into it.

‘Sorry to break up the chat, ladies, but I think it’s time we ought to be getting Auriol home to bed. Thanks for the party. I think everybody has had a great time.’

I wouldn’t say that, exactly.

Bless Craig. He’s the most trusting man on the planet. When I offered to come into school with him, to help to make scenery for the school nativity play, he almost kissed my feet and didn’t suspect, for an instant, that I might have an ulterior motive.

‘Are you sure, John?’

‘Well, you said that you’re short of volunteers and time. My project at the Beeb is almost wrapped up – I can get to the school by about three-thirty, if it helps.’I shrugged, to give the impression that I didn’t mind either way.

‘Normally the parents are very forthcoming with their time,’he assured me. ‘It’s just that December is a busy time and although we’ve got a number of volunteers to sew costumes and paint scenery, no one with any experience with a saw has come forward.’

The fathers are clearly lazy bastards. I don’t blame them. I wouldn’t normally give up an evening in the pub to make the backdrop for a nativity scene, but I’ve
seen the list of volunteers, neatly pinned to Craig’s office noticeboard. I figure it will be worth my while.

I know Connie is the photographer and all, but God, do I wish I’d had a camera to snap her face when she first clapped eyes on me in the school hall.

I couldn’t have planned the moment better. She arrived at about four, so it was already dark outside but the streetlight was streaming in through the large glass windows. It’s a wet night but I don’t feel the cold so I’ve stripped down to my T-shirt (which shows off my muscles). I’m standing in the centre of a light shaft, holding a toolbox (which looks pretty manly) and I’m surrounded by about four mums. All of whom have previously shunned the idea of picking up anything heavier than a cotton reel but are now vying to become budding carpenters.

Connie spots me and is aghast.

I realize that I have a bit of ground to make up, since I never made it to Café Rouge. But I’m not unduly worried. As I’ve mentioned, Connie responds well to a bit of messing around. My standing her up might be the thing that convinces her she wants to be back in my bed.

‘Ah, Mrs Baker,’I yell, cutting across the gaggle of would-be assistants. ‘I understand you are pretty good with a saw and hammer. I wonder if you’d mind giving me a hand.’

Connie scowls, carefully unwraps her scarf from
around her neck and then says, ‘I wouldn’t say I was any sort of expert. I’d rather paint scenery.’

‘Only possible after it’s made, I’m afraid,’interjects one of the other mums. ‘It would be extremely useful if you could help Mr Harding.’

This woman is oblivious to Connie’s pleading stares, which is peculiar because I can see them as clearly as a nun in a brothel.

Connie can’t make a fuss, so she follows me as I lead her to the far end of the hall where I’ve previously laid out the wood and tools. I’ve strategically chosen to set up camp as far away as possible from the other helpers. As soon as we are out of earshot Connie demands, ‘Are you trying to embarrass me?’

‘No, I’m helping out,’I answer plainly.

‘Since when have you been the milk of human kindness?’

‘Connie, that’s not fair. You know I always help out a mate if I can.’

Connie looks mildly chastised but then seems to remember something.

‘Well, you clearly don’t count me in with your friends or else you’d have turned up at Café Rouge.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry about that. Something came up.’

Connie glares at me and then seems to lose interest in arguing. All at once her body relaxes. I watch as she appears to melt. In the old days she was often rigid with tension, now she seems fluid.

‘Not to worry. I was only half expecting you to show.
It didn’t matter. I still had a drink with my friend who manages the place. He thought it was funny that I’d been stood up.’

I’m stunned. I don’t know how to take this. She’s told a friend of hers about me and they joked about her being stood up. Clearly Connie did not see our agreement to meet as anything like a date. If she had believed that we were on a date and I’d stood her up, wild horses wouldn’t have dragged that confession from her. She turns to look at the wood at our feet.

‘I really am hopeless with any kind of woodwork. I only volunteer for these things so that the staff think highly of me. I wouldn’t have had you down as a handy man either.’

‘I’m not especially, but Craig was desperate,’I confess. Connie smiles. She seems genuinely friendly. I had been expecting anger, tension and accusations. I don’t know how to behave in light of her reasonableness. She is being so level-headed that it’s possible to mistake her attitude for indifference. The thought chills me.

‘Well, let’s just get on with this then. We should be as professional as possible. Don’t be overly friendly, OK?’she adds.

‘OK.’

Connie lowers her voice, ‘If I went home now people might think I was acting peculiarly.’