Young Wives' Tales (40 page)

‘I have twenty words,’said Auriol. Her tone was triumphant but I had no idea what she was talking about. She pointed to a poster pinned on the wall. Upon which simple words were written: ‘I’, ‘am’, ‘you’, ‘was’, etc. She put her tiny finger under each word and started to read to me.

‘If, in, what, and.’

I didn’t interrupt her and when she finished I said, ‘That was twenty-four words – you have twenty-four words, more than you thought.’I smiled.

Proud, she grinned back at me. ‘I can read whole books.’She rushed over to the library corner and picked up a book.

‘This is Mum. This is Dad. This is a dog. This is a cat.’Placing her tiny finger under each word as she said it, she carefully completed the simple book. Of course I’d heard her attempts to read before, as she often read with Eva, but I hadn’t realized she was so advanced. Mortification and pride fought for my attention. Since that afternoon I’ve realized that this conflict is one I might be living with for quite some time. Mortification at all I’ve missed, pride in what she’s achieved even though she’s been largely neglected by me.

I knew she was bright.

‘Auriol is very good at reading,’said Miss Gibbon. ‘One of the best in the class.’

‘I can see that,’I commented, and then I had to rush Auriol out of the class before I was further exposed.

I took Auriol out for tea that night. We did not go home so that I could change clothes because she was starving and we agreed that reading was ‘hungry-making work’.

The next day Peter, Auriol and I went to the movies and I let her sit on my knee throughout the allegedly scary bits, even though my shirt got creased and the movie was a Disney cartoon and we both knew that really she wasn’t in the least bit scared.

On Sunday the twins came to visit as usual, and we all went rollerblading in Kensington Gardens, which was unusual. I can’t say I enjoyed myself. Sebastian knocked me over four times and I’m pretty sure none of the collisions were accidents, but Peter and Auriol were glowing with happiness, despite the drizzle and the cold. As I lowered myself into a hot bath that night I examined my grazed knees and palms and fat tears slid down my face. I brushed them away impatiently. I told myself I was crying at my injuries, or even at the fact that, in my rush to leave the house today, I’d left my gloves behind so that my fingers had stung with cold all day and now looked about as attractive as defrosting fish fingers, economy brand. It would be dreadful to think the tears were tears of regret at my actions, or grief for the time I’d squandered, or terror at being discovered for what I really am. Although any of these things is enough to make me cry.

The idyllic little scenes I’ve just described turned out not to be wholly representative. Over the course of the week Auriol became less cooperative, not more. The novelty of my appearing at the school gate wore off with indecent haste and by day three she asked, ‘Aren’t you supposed to be making money? Where’s Eva? Eva knows that I go to the library on Tuesdays.’

I had imagined that the moment I decided I was ready to embrace my daughter, family life and all the associated that I would be welcomed with literal and metaphorical open arms. I was wrong. Auriol is finding
my sudden interest in her whereabouts rather claustrophobic. She behaved like a stroppy teenager when I suggested we limit the number of play-dates she can accept in a week. But she is so tired after school, I do believe she needs down time. On Wednesday I asked her where she’d picked up the expression ‘fart-head’. She informed me that it was none of my business and went on to assure me that I am the only, only, only Mummy that doesn’t allow sleepovers, and for that she hates me.

We don’t know one another. It is as I suspected, except worse. I was aware that I didn’t have any real understanding of my daughter’s nature but I hadn’t imagined her to be particularly complex. She’s four years old, for God’s sake, I hadn’t realized there had been enough time for her to develop mysterious and elusive intricacies. Over the last ten days I’ve struggled to find common ground but I’m exposed, as I don’t know the names of her friends, or her favourite TV shows, or which books she’s already had read to her as bedtime stories. I realize that playing with her would be a ‘good thing’but I have no patience for threading beads, hosting imaginary tea parties for her soft toys or dressing and undressing Barbie dolls as though they were stuck in a Ground Hog Day nightmare. Instead, I try to encourage her to play Connect 4 and noughts and crosses. After initial objections, yesterday she agreed, and it turns out that she has a very logical mind. I shared with her my tip for both games, which is to
insist on going first and always to take the centre position. It might not be the most philanthropic motherly advice but it’s a start and she did enjoy winning.

It transpires that we are rather alike, which I’m pleased about, but our being similar does have its issues. We are both strong-willed, independent and self-sufficient. We have clear ideas (often conflicting) on how and when things should be done. We disagree about what Auriol should eat, when she should practise her flash cards and at what time she ought to go to bed. As I haven’t ever given motherhood much thought, a number of bad habits have been allowed to develop. It used to be that Auriol would switch off her own bedside light at any time she liked at night. Providing she stayed in her room after Eva put her there, I didn’t much care. Having given it some thought, I’ve decided that lights ought to be out by 7 p.m. on a week-night bedtime. My suggestion was greeted with contempt.

‘I’m not a baby, Mummy,’she insisted.

But it’s just occurring to both of us that actually, she is. She’s my baby.

I’ve stretched bedtime to 8 p.m. at weekends, at great personal sacrifice. After a full day of entertaining her I quite often want to hurl her into bed at around five. I had no idea how hard it was to spend an entire day encouraging a child to eat fruit and vegetables, limit the hours on the computer or in front of the TV and disallow sweet snacks. I often ache with holding my body in a form of protest. I fall into my bed exhausted, but as I am erect with tension sleep often eludes me.

Connie has taken a great interest in my progress. I think she’s enjoying being the one to offer advice and assurance. Over the last week there have been times that I wanted to throttle her as her patronizing chorus of ‘I told you so’and ‘You’ll get the hang of it’sallied forth. There are days when I want to yell at her that she was part of my downfall. If she had not embraced motherhood quite so fully then I would still have had someone to drink cocktails with, and then I would have stayed in practice and not got plastered at Wasp bar, and then I would not have felt lonely and morbid, and then I would not have allowed Joe Whitehead to…At this point my argument disintegrates. I haven’t got the stomach for blame. It’s never been my style. I take responsibility for my own disasters. Besides, I realize that Connie has taken the natural path. Loving your kids and adapting your life to accommodate the life you’ve created is the proper way. It must be because it feels right to me now. Even when I’m getting it wrong, it feels right.

Yes. Because this week I’m already discovering that even when I do fall into bed exhausted but stiff with tension, I can identify a smidgen of pride hidden deep inside and I know that what I’m trying to achieve is a good thing. On Thursday I felt a glow when Auriol chose for me to bath her, rather than Eva, and that glow was fanned when I won a smile of pleasure from Auriol for remembering her favourite Girls Aloud song on Saturday. Something very deep inside me has stirred, resentment has been dislodged and something more
positive, that I can’t quite identify yet, is growing in its place. It’s worthwhile.

That said, I’m no saint, and after ten days of trying to qualify for a mother of the year award I ring Connie and demand she meets me for a cocktail after our kids are in bed.

I arrive at the bar first and I order us both a Cosmopolitan. When Connie arrives soon after me, she pounces on it gleefully.

‘I’m finding this mothering thing is often bloody, but why am I surprised? That’s what I’d expected. Auriol told me she hated me again today.’

‘Oh, that. They all say that from time to time.’She waves her hand dismissively and the sense of rejection I’ve been carrying around since teatime dissolves. ‘The books say that you have to reply with some crap like, “Well, I still love you.”’

‘Really?’I’m shocked.

‘Yes, but I usually say, “That’s a horrible word, Fran, and you should think very carefully before being so mean to your mum. I feed you.”’We both laugh. ‘There’s no such thing as a perfect mum. Whatever I do she’ll blame me when she grows up and she’s in therapy. How’s work?’

‘It’s fine. Actually, no, it isn’t. I’ll probably be sacked soon. The word on the street is that I’ve taken my eye off the ball and I’m yesterday’s hero.’

‘Rubbish. You’ll be there when you’re contemplating Saga holidays and need a hearing aid to listen to the gossip.’

‘Connie, please don’t be gross.’

But I find myself laughing and something in the pit of my stomach moves again. More resentment is dissolving, the contentment is growing. OK, maybe growing old isn’t totally horrifying. It’s not great, but there’s always surgery – and consider the alternative to growing old.

I’m not joking about the problems at work though. A week is a long time in the City. Last week I turned down all invitations to lunch, drinks or dinner. I used the excuse that I haven’t time for a lunch-break because I want to leave the office in time to read to Auriol, which is half of the truth. The other half of the equation is that I have to ask, after the office party, how can I ever trust myself to socialize with a colleague again? My commitment to Auriol is seen as a betrayal at work. Today, a sizeable new client, who I was sure was winging his way towards me, was given to Joe Whitehead to care-take. The irony isn’t lost on me. I feel passed over but can’t prove that the client was ever intended to come into my pasture. I did not take this news lying down and marched into Ralph’s office and demanded that he offer an explanation. He said that Joe had more experience in that particular field. Maybe he has.

Maybe.

Or maybe word of my indiscretion at the party has leaked into the boardroom.

Or maybe my femininity, and therefore frailty, is exposed now that I’ve admitted, in my heart, that I am a mother. I don’t know which is worse.

‘Do you still see much of that Mick?’asks Connie.

‘No,’I reply shortly.

Connie keeps her eyes on me – she’s waiting for me to elaborate. I want to, I’m just not sure where to start. Mick and I have been avoiding one another. I can’t decide if it’s because I propositioned him when I was drunk or because he turned me down. Either alternative would be better than the possibility that he has heard about Joe. I look at Connie and wonder if she could cope with me confessing to having sex with a man other than Peter. Before I married Peter, Connie used to be thrilled with stories about my exploits, but I’m not sure she’d see tight, drunken, regretful adultery with a nasty loner as source for titillation. What possessed me? Even while I ask the question, I know the answer. I’ve never been into self-delusion. Alcohol and loneliness were the catalysts and culprits. A fatal cocktail.

I decide I don’t want to hang my filthy linen in Connie’s backyard. I won’t tell her about my horrid indiscretion. Joe is
not
important. No one need ever know. He was nothing more than a wake-up call. He meant
nothing
. Speaking of him would give him import that he doesn’t deserve. I push him to the back of my mind, the way I have had to on countless occasions this week. If I think of the moment when he kissed me and I could smell stale, old food on his teeth, I might start to heave. Peter never smells of anything other than Listerine mouthwash and Colgate toothpaste. Joe Whitehead’s mouth, full of metal and rotting meat, made me
pull back. We had sex without kissing. Prostitutes do the same thing, I understand.

I’ve stayed silent long enough for Connie to realize I’m not in the mood to swap confidences about Mick or any other aspect of GWH. She moves on to a topic nearer to her heart.

‘So will you be volunteering to help sew costumes for the nativity play?’I stare at her horrified. ‘Or sell tickets?’I shake my head. ‘Serve coffee at the interval?’

‘Get real, Connie. No. I’m doing my best but I’m not PA material, we both know that.’

‘You could be, if you wanted to be.’

‘Now there’s a truth. Don’t expect to see me at those hideous children’s group coffee mornings any time soon, either.’

‘Why?’

‘Everyone sits on their fat arses and eats cake all morning in some depressing town hall. I cannot stand those ghastly places. They always smell of child crap.’

Connie laughs and orders us each another cocktail.

‘I’ll have a bottle of mineral water instead. I’m still hungover from the office party.’

My hangover is moral rather than physical but it’s very real. Connie eyes me with curiosity but doesn’t probe.

‘How’s Eva accepting your recent bonding with Auriol?’she asks.

‘I thought that at least Eva would see my interest as a positive thing. I know I must be lessening her workload
because mine seems to have increased tenfold. But instead of being pleased for my positive contribution she’s chosen to interpret my actions as “unnecessary interference”. She believes I’m rushing home from work early to check up on her and she sees any suggestion I make regarding the structure of Auriol’s day as a direct criticism.’

‘Oh dear.’

‘She’s resigned twice in the last ten days. I don’t know how to manage the situation. I am not willing to see less of Auriol just to placate the nanny.’

‘So?’

‘I’ve decided to do what I always do – I’ve thrown cash at the problem. So far I have managed to persuade her to stay by offering to pay for her gym membership and driving lessons. I wonder what will happen first, our bankruptcy or her final resignation. It’ll be a close call.’

Connie laughs. ‘And how’s Peter?’

‘Really good,’I beam. ‘We’re good.’