More Than Just Mum. Rebecca Smith

any ridiculous thoughts of party planning or new careers to the recesses of my mind.

       Chapter 8

      Benji has a football match today and my mother has kindly agreed to go and stand on the freezing cold touchline and cheer him on. This has the added benefit that when I finally stagger into the house, laden with twenty thousand books that need marking by next Monday, she is sitting at the kitchen table and the house has an air of calm that is non-existent whenever Dylan and Scarlet are here on their own.

      ‘Good day, Hannah?’ she asks, grimacing as I dump my bags onto the floor. ‘You should get yourself one of those tartan shopping-trolley things. You’re going to give yourself a hernia, going on like that.’

      I give her a look and plonk myself down into the seat opposite her.

      ‘Have you got one, then?’

      Mum shudders. ‘Good god, no! They’re for pensioners. I wouldn’t be seen dead dragging one of those round with me.’

      ‘Yet you think I should get one.’ I start massaging the back of my neck in a pathetic attempt to ease out some of the knots. ‘How was the football match?’

      ‘Bloody arctic.’ She looks around, checking that we’re alone. ‘You are aware that Benji is totally abysmal at sport, aren’t you?’

      I nod. ‘Yep.’

      He takes after me, bless his two uncoordinated left feet. I am still waiting for the right sport to present itself to me. I had a brief moment of hopefulness when Nick bought me flashy new trainers and some spanx-like running shorts for my last birthday, but sadly it seems that having all the gear does not counter the fact that I am not built for aerobic activity.

      ‘Which raises the question: why was he chosen to participate in the match in the first place? You can’t be telling me that he’s the best that the school has to offer?’

      ‘Of course he isn’t,’ I tell her, slipping off my shoes and wondering if it’s too early to open the wine. ‘It’s equality, isn’t it?’

      Mum looks confused. ‘What is? Letting the rubbish kids play instead of the good ones?’

      I wince. ‘Don’t let him hear you say that. And it’s just how it is these days. There’d be an uproar if teachers only ever chose the talented kids to represent the school.’

      ‘Why?’ Mum seems genuinely interested, so even though I’m tired and I really can’t be bothered to talk about anything even remotely related to education, I try to explain.

      ‘It’s different to how it was when you or I were at school,’ I say. ‘Everything has to be fair. Benji has a right to play football, even if he is a little bit crap.’

      Mum frowns. ‘Well yes, he should be allowed to kick a ball around in the privacy of his own garden, where nobody else has to witness his lack of skill. But is it actually fair to let him play in a match? If anything, I’d say the kindest thing would be to keep him as far away from a football pitch as humanly possible.’

      ‘You’re probably right.’ I let my gaze wander around the kitchen, hoping to solve the conundrum of what we’re supposed to be having for supper. ‘But it’s a moot point now anyway. He won’t be chosen again until next season.’

      Mum tuts. ‘Well, I think it’s absolutely ridiculous. All this pretending that anybody can do anything. It’ll only lead to disappointment in later life. Kids today need a few home truths.’

      The kitchen door crashes open and a ball comes flying into the room, followed seconds later by an exuberant Benji.

      ‘He shoots! He scores!’ he yells, skidding to a halt by the table. ‘You should have seen me today, Mum!’

      ‘Here he is!’ My mother beams at her youngest grandchild. ‘The Player of the Day himself!’

      I stare at her. What happened to a few home truths?

      Benji giggles. ‘It’s not Player of the Day, silly,’ he tells her. ‘It’s Man of the Match.’

      Then his face falls. ‘Only I didn’t get it. I never get it.’ He turns to me. ‘Jasper McKenzie was Man of the Match again. For like, the gazillionth time. It’s not fair.’

      I shrug, thinking about what Mum was just saying. ‘Well, it probably is fair,’ I tell Benji. ‘If he played really well then he deserves to get the title.’

      ‘That football coach wouldn’t know talent if it kicked him in the face,’ protests my mother. ‘Honestly. I thought that Jasper McKenzie child was nothing but a glorified thug. And what’s more important? Being able to kick a ball in a straight line or being a nice person?’

      ‘In this particular context, I’d say that kicking a ball is probably what they’re looking for,’ I venture, but Mum has already pulled Benji towards her and is murmuring platitudes and reassurances about how, if it were up to her, he’d be Man of the Match every single time he set foot on the pitch.

      *

      Once Benji has been placated and sent off to finish his homework and I have managed to find some tins of tomatoes lurking at the back of the cupboard, Mum stands up and reaches for her bag.

      ‘Thanks for helping me out today,’ I say. ‘I really appreciate it, Mum.’

      She walks across the kitchen and gives me a hug. ‘I’m worried about you, Hannah,’ she tells me. ‘Is everything all right?’

      And I want nothing more than to sink my head onto her shoulder and tell her that no, I am not all right. I feel like I’m splashing about in the middle of the ocean, searching desperately for a life raft while just behind me is a luxury cruise liner where everyone I know is relaxing and laughing and drinking exotic cocktails with those little paper umbrellas that I really, really love.

      But I can’t tell my mother that I am miserable and all at sea because I want a cocktail umbrella. It’s self-indulgent and stupid and utter, utter middle-class angst. I cannot tell the woman who brought me up all on her own, sacrificing her own wants and needs to ensure that I had good Clarks school shoes, that I feel adrift.

      Instead, I give her a squeeze and plaster a big smile on my face. ‘I’m fine, Mum. Just a bit tired, that’s all.’

      She gives me a piercing look and I know that she isn’t fooled.

      ‘It’s okay to ask for some help, now and again,’ she says. ‘I know how hard it can be when your kids start to get older and you’re trying to juggle several hundred things all at once. It makes your brain hurt!’

      ‘I don’t mind the juggling.’ It’s true, I really don’t. I’m an expert juggler. My skills are so brilliant that I could run away and join the circus, if I so desired. ‘I just wish that at least one of the balls had my name on it.’

      Mum laughs. ‘Well, that’s not so difficult,’ she tells me. ‘If you really want to juggle your own ball then you’re going to have to write your name on it yourself!’ She takes her coat off the back of the chair. ‘And my advice? Use an indelible pen then the buggers can’t rub it off when you’re not looking.’