Chewers think they can get away with it, good for them.
She caught the train to Lymington, where a yapping Yorkshire terrier named Nellie greeted her at her mother’s front door. “Why didn’t you tell me? And why did you give it such an old-fashioned name? It’s as bad as Susan.”
She’d always hated her name. She could never decide as a child which she hated more, being ginger, being freckled, or being Susan.
Over the next few days, braving the misty chill, she pottered listlessly around the shops, their Christmas lights sparkling on the cobbled streets in the lower town.
She would raise her head from time to time to look towards the Solent and the Isle of Wight’s dark hulk.
Christmas Day meant capon, sprouts and roast potatoes, shared with the dog which only seemed to stop barking when it was eating. They didn’t bother to buy crackers. Her mother’s attempt to lighten her mood, by inviting her to lunch at Sticklers on the high street, collapsed as soon as the subject of Mimi was raised.
“Do you think I’m a bad mother?” Susan asked as she tackled a generous helping of cod and chips.
“What do you mean, dear?”
“Well, I must be to blame for Mimi turning into the daughter from hell.”
“You did your best. It’s nature as well as nurture, isn’t it? And who knows what genes the girl inherited from her father.” Her mother had never approved of her married boyfriend, despite having broken up a marriage or two herself.
“I wouldn’t worry about it if I were you.” That sounded like the final word. Her mother had never been one for introspection.
“But I do worry. I worry I should have done things differently. And is it a coincidence that she’s a vegan as well? All this unconscious attention-seeking. Maybe I didn’t give her enough attention when she was young.”
“She’ll grow out of it.”
“Do you really think so? I’d be surprised. It’s not a diet, you know, it’s a belief system.” Susan pushed away the remainder of her chips. “Do you think Nellie wants one?”
“She doesn’t eat junk food.” The little dog was sitting at her mother’s feet, had been quiet for most of their lunch. Susan was amazed she’d been allowed into the restaurant.
“I don’t understand why Mimi has to be so aggressive about it,” Susan said. “All this nonsense about bee’s vomit. I’m not sure she’s getting proper nutrition, but she’ll never listen to me.”
“The other day she told me I shouldn’t sprinkle sugar on my oatmeal because it’s refined with cattle bones. I do hope that you’re not responsible for that.”
“Of course not, mother.”
She’d always found it difficult to confide in her mother who remained a private person, averse to raking over feelings and motivations. Susan scrutinized her face as her manicured hand searched her handbag for a wallet and powder puff. She was still beautiful at 72, dignified, lipstick intact. She’d always seemed slightly distracted but few outside the family noticed that now she was increasingly deaf. She dabbed her cheeks with powder. The words remained unspoken. If Susan had been a bad mother, what about her own? Had she unconsciously followed the same pattern of benign neglect with Mimi?
Then her mother said something that surprised her. “Do you know, when I look at Mimi, I see you,” she said. “You want to be different too. That’s why you married a Frenchman, don’t you think?”
Before she had a chance to reply, her mother put on her reading glasses to look at the bill, and feigned shock. “If it gets any worse, I’m going to have to go out to work,” she said. Susan wasn’t aware that her mother had ever had a job.
“Come off it. You’ve got your investments.”
“What do you mean? For two years now that income has been more than cut in half.” She pulled on her woolly poncho which gave off just a hint of mothballs, scooped up Nellie, and sailed out of the restaurant, Susan following behind.
*
The
She caught the train to Lymington, where a yapping Yorkshire terrier named Nellie greeted her at her mother’s front door. “Why didn’t you tell me? And why did you give it such an old-fashioned name? It’s as bad as Susan.”
She’d always hated her name. She could never decide as a child which she hated more, being ginger, being freckled, or being Susan.
Over the next few days, braving the misty chill, she pottered listlessly around the shops, their Christmas lights sparkling on the cobbled streets in the lower town.
She would raise her head from time to time to look towards the Solent and the Isle of Wight’s dark hulk.
Christmas Day meant capon, sprouts and roast potatoes, shared with the dog which only seemed to stop barking when it was eating. They didn’t bother to buy crackers. Her mother’s attempt to lighten her mood, by inviting her to lunch at Sticklers on the high street, collapsed as soon as the subject of Mimi was raised.
“Do you think I’m a bad mother?” Susan asked as she tackled a generous helping of cod and chips.
“What do you mean, dear?”
“Well, I must be to blame for Mimi turning into the daughter from hell.”
“You did your best. It’s nature as well as nurture, isn’t it? And who knows what genes the girl inherited from her father.” Her mother had never approved of her married boyfriend, despite having broken up a marriage or two herself.
“I wouldn’t worry about it if I were you.” That sounded like the final word. Her mother had never been one for introspection.
“But I do worry. I worry I should have done things differently. And is it a coincidence that she’s a vegan as well? All this unconscious attention-seeking. Maybe I didn’t give her enough attention when she was young.”
“She’ll grow out of it.”
“Do you really think so? I’d be surprised. It’s not a diet, you know, it’s a belief system.” Susan pushed away the remainder of her chips. “Do you think Nellie wants one?”
“She doesn’t eat junk food.” The little dog was sitting at her mother’s feet, had been quiet for most of their lunch. Susan was amazed she’d been allowed into the restaurant.
“I don’t understand why Mimi has to be so aggressive about it,” Susan said. “All this nonsense about bee’s vomit. I’m not sure she’s getting proper nutrition, but she’ll never listen to me.”
“The other day she told me I shouldn’t sprinkle sugar on my oatmeal because it’s refined with cattle bones. I do hope that you’re not responsible for that.”
“Of course not, mother.”
She’d always found it difficult to confide in her mother who remained a private person, averse to raking over feelings and motivations. Susan scrutinized her face as her manicured hand searched her handbag for a wallet and powder puff. She was still beautiful at 72, dignified, lipstick intact. She’d always seemed slightly distracted but few outside the family noticed that now she was increasingly deaf. She dabbed her cheeks with powder. The words remained unspoken. If Susan had been a bad mother, what about her own? Had she unconsciously followed the same pattern of benign neglect with Mimi?
Then her mother said something that surprised her. “Do you know, when I look at Mimi, I see you,” she said. “You want to be different too. That’s why you married a Frenchman, don’t you think?”
Before she had a chance to reply, her mother put on her reading glasses to look at the bill, and feigned shock. “If it gets any worse, I’m going to have to go out to work,” she said. Susan wasn’t aware that her mother had ever had a job.
“Come off it. You’ve got your investments.”
“What do you mean? For two years now that income has been more than cut in half.” She pulled on her woolly poncho which gave off just a hint of mothballs, scooped up Nellie, and sailed out of the restaurant, Susan following behind.
*
The
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