You've Made Your Bed
The hat my mother was wearing was old and only came out for funerals. The message was all too clear but at least she was here. I hadn’t been sure if she’d turn up, not till I saw her in the front row. As I made my vows, I glanced to where she sat, shaking her head, her lips pressed together, tight, disapproving. She didn’t like Chris. Thought I could do better.
I turned my attention back to the vicar when he said, ‘You may kiss the bride,’ and I swear I heard a low moan from the front row.
The phone rang. It was not my choice of ring tone. Checking in at 10am.
‘Where are you?’
'At the kitchen sink.’
'There’s no need to be facetious.’
'I’m sorry. I’m at home,’ I said, chastened.
'You weren’t home five minutes ago when I rang.’
Five minutes ago? Where was I? Ah, yes.
'I was down the garden, hanging out the washing.’
'Where was your phone?’
'In the kitchen.’
'You missed my call. It should be with you at all times.’
'I’m sorry.’
The call was disconnected.
Our little girl, Sophie, crawled across the floor and pulled herself to her feet, small fingers pinching flesh as well as fabric. I dotted her nose with a soapy fluff ball and she giggled. We did this every time I washed the dishes. It was such a small thing but filled my heart with delight.
The mobile rang. I flinched. Checking in at 11am. I was in the supermarket, tracked by my phone
'Don’t forget to buy milk.'
I glanced down at my shopping list. Underneath my neat and tidy handwriting, the word MILK had been scrawled in red ink.
‘No. I won’t forget the milk.’
Sophie pulled a packet of biscuits from a shelf. Several other packets fell too. Without thinking I’d parked the trolley too close when the phone rang.
'What was that noise?’
'The woman next to me dropped something.’
'Are you sure it wasn’t you? You’re clumsy enough.’
'No. It wasn’t me.’
The call was disconnected.
It was a beautiful day. The sort of day for visiting the park, for sitting on a swing with my little girl, the sun warm on our faces, hearing her laugh, nuzzling my nose into her silky-soft baby hair. The sort of thing I daren’t do. My phone would give me away. I had chores to do. And too little time in which to do them.
The phone had to be on vibrate from 12 noon to two o’clock so that calls wouldn’t disturb Sophie’s after lunch nap. I was ready for the 1pm check in. Never a minute before, never a minute after.
‘What are we having for dinner?’
'I thought a ham and avocado salad. I bought some …’
'I would like a lasagne. With salad. And garlic bread. And ice cream. I feel like a treat.’
'We have no ice cream. You don’t like to keep in it.’
'There are shops, aren’t there? Or are you too lazy?’
I thought of the ironing I still had to do and cleaning the kitchen and making the bed. Sophie had made such a mess on the floor with her lunch, and bits of chewed rusk stuck like super-glue if they weren’t cleared up within a short time.
'I’ll go out again.’
'Of course you will.’
A pause. I waited. The call was disconnected.
Sophie had become fractious on the way home from the shops. Teething. Which is why I’d given her a rusk to chew. She usually slept for an hour or more after lunch but today she was hot and bothered and as I slid the phone back into my pocket she started squealing. Poor mite. Teething is no fun, especially in the middle of a heat wave. I ran into her room. She was standing, leaning against the side of the cot, sweating and screaming, rubbing her face with her fists, her eyes screwed tight shut, her hair plastered to her head. Her favourite toy was as wet as she was. She’d dribbled all over it.
I picked her up, sat down and cuddled her and soon I was in as bad a shape as Mr. Rabbit. I relaxed. Comforted my daughter till she smiled again. There’d be no 2pm call today. I’d been informed there was an important meeting straight after lunch. Maybe I relaxed too long?
I’d changed Sophie and put her clothes and bedding into the wash and was ungluing rusk from the kitchen floor when the phone went.
'It’s three o’clock. Are you going to the shops?’
My phone had given me away. I wasn’t where I should have been. How could I have lost track of time so badly?
'We’re leaving now.’
'I phoned you two hours ago. I thought you would go straight away. Why didn’t you?’
'Sophie’s teething. She’s been a bit upset and …’
'It’s always excuses with you, isn’t it? You’d do nothing all day if I didn’t chivvy you. And make sure there’s white wine in the fridge. And don’t try to fob me off with a ready-made meal. I fancy a home-made lasagne.’
As if I’d dare offer up a sub-standard meal. But I had to make haste. I needed to make a side trip to the chemist to get some more teething gel. Thank goodness it wasn’t too far to walk to the shops. If we’d been a two-car family… but we weren’t. It was twenty to four as I pushed the buggy back through the front gate. I had a lasagne to make, the washing to fetch in and the kitchen to clean. And the ironing. As usual the day had slipped away from me. I had until five-fifteen. It would all have been do-able but for a teething baby who just wanted to cling and be comforted.
As soon as we were home, I treated Sophie’s gums and cuddled her till the gel began to take effect, then I popped her into her high-chair with a cold tea spoon to chew on while I started the lasagne.
The phone went at four o’clock. I wished I had the courage to ignore it but the outrage that would cause would be bad for me and bad for Sophie.
'Did you remember to get some wine?’
'Yes. I bought a nice …’
'Is it in the fridge.’
'Of course it’s in the fridge.’
'There’s no “of course” about it where you’re concerned.’
Sophie started to cry, wanting my attention.
'And I do hope you’ve managed to stop the baby crying by the time I get home.’
Five o’clock. Holding Sophie, chatting nonsense at her, I checked the house. I’d washed and dried her bedding and remade her bed. The lasagne was in the oven. The garlic bread would go in soon. The washing had been fetched in and most of it had been ironed. I’d not had time to do it all so I hid a few pieces in the airing cupboard, under some towels. I’d hoovered and dusted the lounge first thing and checked that the cushions hadn’t slumped during the day. They had to be nicely plumped. The bed was made, hospital corners and all. The bathroom shone. The stairs dusted. The kitchen clean and the table set. I must have forgotten something. I always did. Catching a glimpse of myself in the hall mirror, I realised what it was. I hadn’t changed. There was dribble and dried rusk on my clothes. I looked a mess.
‘Oh, Sophie. Why didn’t you tell me I look a sight?’
She sucked Mr. Rabbit’s ears and said nothing. I kissed her and we went back upstairs. While I washed and changed, with an eye on the time, she crawled around the bedroom but must have pulled herself to her feet and mussed up the bed covers. I didn’t notice as I heard the car pull into the drive while I was combing my hair. Grabbing Sophie, we went downstairs, in position to open the door before the key could be put into the lock.
The three of us sat at the table. The lasagne had been thrown together quickly, I admit. It was a bit sloppy, could have done with being in the oven a bit longer, but it tasted OK and the pasta was cooked sufficiently. I’d sat Sophie in her high chair and was trying to feed her some of the disgusting cheesy mush that she usually likes. She was having none of it and kept turning her head away. Worse, she grabbed the spoon from my hand and it flew away, its contents splattered across the kitchen floor.
‘That’s it. I’ve had enough.’
I was ready to jump up and clean the floor but was stopped by an upraised hand.
‘Not only is this meal inedible but I don’t even get to eat it in peace and quiet. And look at this place. It’s filthy. I don’t know what you do all day while I’m at work. The bed’s not made and the ironing’s not been done either. I found your pathetic attempts to hide it. Did you think I wouldn’t need a towel for my shower?’
I looked up. Was faced with that mean expression, the one that meant this would be a long evening. I learnt long ago that to argue would only inflame the anger. So, too, would my silence, which was broken only by Sophie’s grizzling.
‘She’s teething,’ I said. ‘And tired. I’ll put her to bed.’
With the aid of the teething gel and a long cuddle, I was able to soothe the tension from my daughter’s chunky little body. Rows, like the one that was simmering downstairs, upset her. It had been a long day for her too but eventually she settled and slept.
Nothing had changed when I went down. The angry look. The petulance. The determination to have it out. I’d seen it all before. This time though, I was caught unawares.
The phone was being pointed in my direction. The screen glowed. A conversation had obviously just finished.
‘It has become obvious to me that you can’t cope. I’ve just spoken to my mother. We’ve decided that the child will go and stay with her. I’ll take her round first thing, before work.’ More wine was poured, although there was still half a glassful.
‘Stay?’ I blurted out the word. ‘For how long?’ Thinking a day, maybe a week.
‘Until she grows up.’
‘No. No. You can’t do this.’
My mother-in-law was as bad as my own mother. Mum would say, ‘You’ve made your bed, so lie on it.’ Mother-in-law would cheerfully do anything to spite me. She was a hard woman. I couldn’t allow her to get her hands on Sophie.
Looking back, I see that the last ten months had been leading up to this. I had no job, no car, no cash. But I did have a sweet-natured daughter for whom I’d do anything or suffer any pain or indignity.
I didn’t sit. Stood looking down, my hands clenched.
‘Of course I can. And if you try to stop me, I’ll call the police. You look as though you would like to hit me. I’ll tell them you abuse me.’
Bewildered, I shook my head. Sat down before I fell down. ‘I’ve never lifted a finger …’
‘I’ll tell them I’m afraid you’ll turn on the child.’
I’d never harm Sophie. It was my job to look after her. To give her as normal an upbringing as possible, despite the situation.
‘You can’t. You …’
‘Oh, yes, I can. And you know what? They’d believe me.’
Chris took a good sip of wine. Savoured it. Smiled. ‘They always believe the mother.’
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