Mother Love
Created | Updated Oct 31, 2008
I wondered if Ross meant trouble when he stopped playing and watched me load a tray of china bowls on the living room table. Still, I needed to get back to the salmon I was baking, prepare vegetables and fill a pastry case with lemon meringue filling. My brother’s visits are so rare that I like to make a special effort. At the bottom of the stairs I hesitated, wondering why my husband always needs to work at times like this.
“Chris, could you come and keep an eye on Ross?”
“I’m just finishing. I’ll be down in a minute.”
As I stood in the kitchen chopping vegetables, I heard a crash. Hurrying into the living room, I found broken bowls littering the floor.
“That’s my place,” said Ross.
“Ross, that’s naughty!” I bellowed.
Chris ran down the stairs, his usual good natured face screwed into a scowl. "What’s going on?”
“Ross has thrown all that crockery on the floor.”
“You’re going to your room!” cried Chris, seizing Ross’s hand and dragging him upstairs.
For a moment, I gazed at the pile of broken crockery, then I sighed, sank to my knees and started collecting the wreckage.
“Henry and Dana are here,” said Chris, as a car turned into the drive.
I was still picking up fragments of crockery as Henry walked in, dragging a large suitcase. His hair had receded a little and his eyes were travel weary, but he still had the confident air I remembered. I pushed my unruly hair from my face and took off my apron.
Dana embraced me. “How are you, Sandie?”
I like my sister-in-law. Her brown eyes look at people directly but the wrinkles round the corners suggest humour.
“I’m all right but Ross is being difficult.”
“How old is he now?”
“Three.”
“A difficult age.”
Dana and Henry sat in battered armchairs, looking at our half-hearted efforts at gardening, while Chris poured sherry.
“How’s Dad?” asked Henry. “I’m sorry I couldn’t go to Mum’s funeral. I couldn’t get away until the end of term. The last couple of months before the end of the academic year are always chaotic.”
“He’s a bit lost. He needs company and I sure he’ll be glad to see you.”
Henry picked up a photo from the window sill. It showed Mum and Ross by a Christmas tree, unwrapping a pile of brightly wrapped presents.
“Is this the last picture you have of her?”
“They look so happy there,” I murmured, gazing at the smiling, grey haired woman, and the little boy with blonde curls.
My mind returned for the umpteenth time to my mother’s death. Dad had rung to say that Mum was in hospital after a heart attack. I crumpled into the nearest chair and sat running my hands through my hair. Dad rang again the next day. Mum had died within hours of being admitted to hospital.
It was a bright spring day when I sat with Dad in a limousine following the hearse to the crematorium. As we stopped near the chapel, I looked at gardens full of daffodils and cherry trees as bright as a child’s painting. I thought of Mum’s love of spring flowers and wished she could see them. I followed Dad into the chapel and noticed how his shoulders stooped. During the rector’s address I sat dabbing my eyes and recalling memories of Mum, from my earliest childhood to the conversation I so regretted.
I was brought back to the present by Ross standing in the doorway. He had grown tall enough to escape from exile.
“Hey, haven’t you grown since we last saw you!” said Henry.
“Say ‘sorry’ for breaking those bowls,” I demanded.
Instead, Ross ran straight to his toy box and emptied a heap of toy cars onto the floor.
“You’re not getting a piece of melon unless you say sorry.”
Ross turned his head. “Sorry.”
“Talking of melon, I’d better go back to the cooking,” I said.
Dana followed me. “I’ll give you a hand.”
We stood in the narrow kitchen together, surrounded by used saucepans and dirty spoons, packets of butter and sugar. Dana piled chopped vegetables into a saucepan, while I stirred meringue for the pie.
“Are you all right? You looked as if you were about to cry in there.”
“I can’t get Ross to do anything I tell him. He seems so contrary. When I took him to the toddlers’ group the other day he started pushing the other children. I had to take him out.”
“He’ll grow out of it. But what about you?”
I dropped my spoon with a clatter. “To be honest, Mum and I had an argument just before she had that heart attack and I feel it was my fault. I can’t forgive myself.”
It had happened on the last visit to my parents’ house. Mum had spent all morning preparing a chicken with vegetables and trimmings. When we sat down to eat, Chris and Dad talked about the state of the engineering industry while I tried to persuade Ross to eat with a knife and fork. I noticed Mum’s eyes on Ross as he picked up pieces of carrot with his fingers.
‘You need to be stricter with that child,’ Mum said.
‘How am I supposed to get him to do things he doesn’t want to?’
‘Tell him what you want him to do and tell him off if he doesn’t do it.’
‘It doesn’t make any difference.’
‘You’re not persistent enough.’
‘I think you can be too critical of a child. The baby book I read says that they grow up with no self-confidence if you tell them off all the time.’
Mum snorted. ‘That’s the latest theory, I suppose. Well, I don’t think a good telling off hurt anyone.’
I started thinking of my own childhood, the number of times Mum had criticised my untidy hand writing, my clothes, my choice of books. ‘I think I might have grown up more confident if you hadn’t been so critical.’
‘What?’
‘You were always telling me off.’
‘Only when you were naughty.’
‘According to you, everything I did was wrong!’
‘What are you two arguing about?’ asked Dad. We changed the conversation but I never forgot the look of pain in Mum’s eyes.
The clattering of plates brought me out of my reverie. Dana had found another set of bowls and was filling them with melon slices. I drew the baking dish from the oven and peeled the foil from the salmon, filling the kitchen with delicious smelling steam. Chris fetched wine from the fridge and uncorked it. Everyone took their places round the table, with me sitting next to Ross, in an attempt to persuade him to eat properly.
“This is very civilised,” said Henry. “Travelling so often, I get used to airline meals.”
“I think Sandie’s done very well,” said Dana. “You’re being good too, aren’t you Ross?”
Ross beamed. “I want more melon.”
As the meal progressed, conversation turned to memories of Mum.
“Her death was a terrible shock,” I said.
Henry shook his head. “We should have seen it coming, after the two heart attacks she’d already had. When I spoke to Dad on the phone, he said she’d spent the morning climbing up steps to clean the windows. She really should have taken things easier but she wouldn’t give up.”
“ You don’t think it’s my fault? ” I murmured.
“I doubt it and at least she didn’t suffer.”
I carried the lemon meringue pie to the table and set it down with a flourish. It looked impressive: shining yellow filling and mountains of meringue. As my family demolished the pie, I thought about Mum and wondered how well we had understood each other. Had I been unfair to her ? Maybe I hadn’t appreciated how hard motherhood was until I had my own son. I took a spoonful of lemon meringue pie and smiled.
“Well, I think that pie was pretty good.”
