Three Angry Women And A Baby

3. Mum

Chapter Three

Mum

A hammer is only as good as its holder.

We had tried to move several times over the years, but something always got in the way, mainly Mum. Mum objected to all the houses we saw: she would wheel into our bedsit, spy the latest leaflet, and pooh-pooh it with as many reasons why not as she had stories.

Soon, what would be wrong with the next place became a joke between us . . . until I fell pregnant. Suddenly, there was little to laugh at.

George maintained that Mum meant well. My sister, however, saw it differently.

She laughed her head off. “You’ll need to give up the booze,” she said, wiping tears from her eyes.

Like I drank every day . . .

Then she stopped mid-chuckle and looked from me to Steven with a you poor cow look.

“What about Mum—have you told her?” said Lindsey.

Steven sighed. “I think she suspects.”

“What?” I said.

He looked at me. “Every time she’s here, you’re throwing up.”

“Nothing new there,” muttered Lindsey.

“I haven’t had a hangover in ages,” I snapped.

“And,” said Steven, “she’s obsessed with your perineum.”

Lindsey pulled a face. “Typical . . . has she brought you rich tea biscuits yet?”

Steven looked at me with a has she? look.

“Well, yes,” I muttered.

“Bugger,” muttered Lindsey, “it’s worse than I thought. She’ll want to help next.”

“You are joking,” said Steven. “Beatrice helping?”

“You have no idea what is coming,” said Lindsey. “The depths of Mother’s seduction.”

I almost laughed. Mum, seducing?

Lindsey threw me a not kidding look. “One whiff of baby powder and Mum is unstoppable.” She turned to Steven. “She’s like a drug addict—she can’t get enough of a baby.”

“I find that hard to believe,” said Steven. “Your mother hates kids. According to her, our moving out of the garage is the event of the century.”

Lindsey sniffed. “Mere empty words. Mum’s as cryptic as a Guardian crossword; she has more double meanings than a Shakespearean play.”

“Aren’t we being a tad dramatic?” said Steven.

“Dramatic,” said Lindsey with a look of impeding plague. “You’re like lambs to the slaughter.”

Distant memories of when Lindsey was a new mother came flooding back. Within a week of her son being born, Mum had pushed my sister to the brink. Lindsey started phoning me with threats of “wrist-slitting” and “no longer being responsible for my actions.”

And Lindsey hated the sight of blood . . .

In the end, my sister survived by moving away and paying a cleaner/babysitter who, to quote both the cleaner and Lindsey, not only knew “all about babies” but gave Mum “a run for her money.”

“She’ll tempt you, but don’t be fooled. And don’t let her talk you out of moving.” Lindsey grabbed my arm. “Promise me.”

I tentatively withdrew my arm. “You make motherhood sound like an execution. Do you have to be so brutal?”

“Brutal doesn’t even begin to describe motherhood and babies. Tell me you’re moving.”

“Definitely,” muttered Steven.

After Lindsey left, making us promise to “get out while you can,” Mum called me over.

I walked in on Mum mid–coffee plunging, humming like a half-cut hairdresser. She gleefully offered cream; I started to feel nervous. She never offered me cream, stating that it was the last thing my hips needed.

I pulled up a seat in the kitchen, catching sight of three books on the table: Chicken Soup for Grandmothers, Natural Childbirth—God’s Greatest Gift, and There Is More to Babies Than Nappies.

She offered me one of my favourite chocolate biscuits. “Help yourself,” she said with what I presumed was her seductive look. “Keep your strength up.”

I eyed her offerings.

She nudged the biscuits towards me.

“So what’s your sister saying then?”

I pushed the packet back towards her.

“She had morning sickness too, you know,” said Mum.

“Everyone knows about rich tea biscuits,” I said.

“Well, you didn’t,” said Mum.

“Yes I did, I was just being polite,” I said.

Mum nudged the biscuit nearer with an it’s chocolate, your favourite look. “You have no idea of what you are letting yourself into,” she said.

“I think I do.”

“You can’t have enough help when you have a baby, and unlike Lindsey, you can’t afford help,” said Mum.

A sinking feeling hit me like heartburn . . .

“I’ve got Steven,” I said.

“Pfff, he’s just the dad,” laughed Mum.

“What do you mean, just the dad? The dad is vital, and he intends on being as vital as they come. Every night he talks to my stomach.”

“Stomach? What about the nappies?” she said. “Your father was useless.”

“They’re disposable now, as easy to slip on as a sock,” I said. “And besides, Steven’s different.”

“Sensitive, you mean.”

“Sensitive is not a dirty word,” I said.

“Aye, but where is sensitivity when you’re both needing a break?” said Mum. She pulled out another packet of rich tea biscuits and gave me a Mum knows best look.

“I’m not feeling sick at the moment,” I muttered.

“Like I said, you can’t have enough help,” said Mum. “I mean, if it hadn’t been for me, where would Lindsey be? She forgets.”

“I don’t think so,” I muttered. “Besides, Steven has arranged for Helen to come and help.”

“I’m talking of the wee one.” She looked at me. “This Helen may be a dab hand at silicone and tiling, but she’ll not be much help with a baby.”

Helen, a quiet woman who liked smashing things with a hammer, was Steven’s sister. And it was Steven’s idea for her to help me install a kitchen—a kitchen which, to quote Beatrice, was “perfectly good as it was.”

I filled up my coffee and braced myself for some drama as I told Mum that we were planning on moving and getting something bigger, “at least with more than one room.”

She stopped in her tracks. “You in a house?”

“What’s so weird about that?” I said.

She looked at me with concern. “Cleaning a house is not for everyone, and moving?” She pulled a face. “Very stressful—are you sure you are up for it with all this morning sickness?”

“We live in a bedsit the size of a tent,” I said. “We need more room.”

Mum slid a chocolate biscuit between her lips, spotting George as he entered. She nodded. “I understand.”

“What?” I choked on my coffee.

“And I can help.” She paused, catching a look from George. “With the move, that is.”

I looked at her. Did she mean it, or was she joking? I hadn’t a clue, and I was so confused I dunked a tea biscuit in my mother’s coffee. Her lips tilted into a smile.