chef’s hat my mother wore as she cooked, the packet of French cigarettes my mother had bought her as a treat, and the bottle of white wine she placed on the table before we began.
“I love a bit of good plonk with my food, I really do,” Mabel said, gulping back half her glass of wine before lifting it into the air and declaring,
“Ooh là là
, here’s to a little bit of France right here in Hull.”
My father, on the other hand, was rather irritated by the whole thing and seemed to have little desire to consume meals whose names he could not pronounce, never mind understand.
“Jesus Christ, Evelyn. Whatever happened to good, plain English food?” he complained one night at the sight of a whole small bird and a pile of haricots verts in cream sauce on his plate. “I mean, what on earth is this, anyway, underage chicken? What’s wrong with a nice steak and kidney pudding, a few Brussels sprouts and some chips?”
My mother’s response was swift and to the point. She picked up the plate she had just placed in front of my father, screamed, “Nobody ever appreciates me! Nobody!” and hurled it at the wall. The plate shattered, the bird thumped to the floor, and the haricots verts in their cream sauce stuck to the wall for a moment before oozing slowly downward, eventually forming a puddle on the linoleum. “You’ll send me to Delapole, you two!” she yelled, giving me a furious look that seemed to indicate that she regarded me as the instigator of my father’s complaint.
“I like your French food, Mum,” I said, lifting my knife and fork, as if I were desperate to sink my teeth into the small bird, which I, like my father, speculated was a prematurely butchered chicken. But it was too late. She leaned over me, grabbed my plate, and spun round to throw that, too, at the wall.
After that, another bad patch. That was followed, several months later, by a brief but very intense interest in dressmaking (I got a whole new, ill-fitting, and rather bizarre wardrobe), then macramé (until every available space in the house was covered in multicolored throws,blankets, tablecloths, and antimacassars), candle making, quilting, upholstery, rug making, amateur dramatics, and, finally, a stint organizing jumble sales for the Young Wives Club until, for some reason that she never revealed to my father and me, she was asked to step down. And, in between all these things, there were, of course, the bad patches.
“I THINK I’LL TRY and fix that roof tomorrow,” my father said, scraping the last baked beans from the tin and spooning them into his mouth. “First things first, after all.”
I only hoped my father was up to it. He’d never been particularly good with heights and wouldn’t even take me on the big wheel at Hull Fair because he said it made him dizzy. I had a difficult time imagining him scrambling over the steep slate roof, but I didn’t want to be too negative, so I gave him what I hoped was an encouraging smile.
“And you’ll have to do your part, our Jesse.”
“Me?” I was thrilled, visualizing myself scrabbling over the tiles beside him, looking out over the fields like I was on top of the world.
“Yes—I need you to keep an eye on your mother for me while I’m busy. We wouldn’t want her to … well, we’ve seen enough problems already without another little episode, if you know what I mean.”
“What am I supposed to do?” I asked. “I can’t stop her from doing anything.” I felt the panic rising.
My father reached over and patted me on the head. “Just look out for her, that’s all. I mean, it’ll not be for long, love. You’ll see, she’ll soon be right as rain.”
“She will?” More than anything, I wanted to believe him.
CHAPTER FOUR
F OR A WEEK OR SO, I SAT AROUND THE HOUSE TRYING TO FOLLOW MY father’s instructions and watch over my mother. I wanted to help him, but just the idea of it made me feel overwhelmed. What was I supposed to do? Keep her away from the
“I love a bit of good plonk with my food, I really do,” Mabel said, gulping back half her glass of wine before lifting it into the air and declaring,
“Ooh là là
, here’s to a little bit of France right here in Hull.”
My father, on the other hand, was rather irritated by the whole thing and seemed to have little desire to consume meals whose names he could not pronounce, never mind understand.
“Jesus Christ, Evelyn. Whatever happened to good, plain English food?” he complained one night at the sight of a whole small bird and a pile of haricots verts in cream sauce on his plate. “I mean, what on earth is this, anyway, underage chicken? What’s wrong with a nice steak and kidney pudding, a few Brussels sprouts and some chips?”
My mother’s response was swift and to the point. She picked up the plate she had just placed in front of my father, screamed, “Nobody ever appreciates me! Nobody!” and hurled it at the wall. The plate shattered, the bird thumped to the floor, and the haricots verts in their cream sauce stuck to the wall for a moment before oozing slowly downward, eventually forming a puddle on the linoleum. “You’ll send me to Delapole, you two!” she yelled, giving me a furious look that seemed to indicate that she regarded me as the instigator of my father’s complaint.
“I like your French food, Mum,” I said, lifting my knife and fork, as if I were desperate to sink my teeth into the small bird, which I, like my father, speculated was a prematurely butchered chicken. But it was too late. She leaned over me, grabbed my plate, and spun round to throw that, too, at the wall.
After that, another bad patch. That was followed, several months later, by a brief but very intense interest in dressmaking (I got a whole new, ill-fitting, and rather bizarre wardrobe), then macramé (until every available space in the house was covered in multicolored throws,blankets, tablecloths, and antimacassars), candle making, quilting, upholstery, rug making, amateur dramatics, and, finally, a stint organizing jumble sales for the Young Wives Club until, for some reason that she never revealed to my father and me, she was asked to step down. And, in between all these things, there were, of course, the bad patches.
“I THINK I’LL TRY and fix that roof tomorrow,” my father said, scraping the last baked beans from the tin and spooning them into his mouth. “First things first, after all.”
I only hoped my father was up to it. He’d never been particularly good with heights and wouldn’t even take me on the big wheel at Hull Fair because he said it made him dizzy. I had a difficult time imagining him scrambling over the steep slate roof, but I didn’t want to be too negative, so I gave him what I hoped was an encouraging smile.
“And you’ll have to do your part, our Jesse.”
“Me?” I was thrilled, visualizing myself scrabbling over the tiles beside him, looking out over the fields like I was on top of the world.
“Yes—I need you to keep an eye on your mother for me while I’m busy. We wouldn’t want her to … well, we’ve seen enough problems already without another little episode, if you know what I mean.”
“What am I supposed to do?” I asked. “I can’t stop her from doing anything.” I felt the panic rising.
My father reached over and patted me on the head. “Just look out for her, that’s all. I mean, it’ll not be for long, love. You’ll see, she’ll soon be right as rain.”
“She will?” More than anything, I wanted to believe him.
CHAPTER FOUR
F OR A WEEK OR SO, I SAT AROUND THE HOUSE TRYING TO FOLLOW MY father’s instructions and watch over my mother. I wanted to help him, but just the idea of it made me feel overwhelmed. What was I supposed to do? Keep her away from the
Similar Books
