Fiona Gibson - Mum On The Run

‘Aww,’ Toby says. ‘Poor Mummy.’

‘You mean she pretended to break it,’ Finn cuts in, carving grooves in his mashed potato with his fork. ‘Dad, didn’t she take the bandage off as soon as she got home and start walking normally? She was totally putting it on.’ He takes a noisy slurp of his orange juice and bangs his glass on the table.

‘Well, yes,’ chuckles Jed.

I glance down, checking that I still exist. Yep, all evidence suggests that I am a functioning human being with a beating heart and everything.

‘Why?’ Toby asks, wide-eyed, twirling a fork through his still-blond curls.

‘To make people feel sorry for her,’ Finn replies, ‘because she’s . . .’

‘Excuse me,’ I butt in. ‘I am here, you know. You don’t need to talk about me as if I’m somewhere else.’

‘Like hospital,’ Finn mutters.

I shoot him a look and push my shepherd’s pie aside, unable to face another mouthful. ‘I know it sounds stupid,’ I start, ‘but I didn’t mean for that to happen. You see, I was dizzy and confused – concussed maybe . . .’ I refrain from adding: and you know what? If it hadn’t been for the shock of seeing your darling father and that teacher woman, prodding each other on the sports field, I would never have fallen in the first place.

‘Were you really concussed?’ Jed sniggers.

‘It’s not funny, Jed. It’s one of the most embarrassing things that’s ever happened to me.’ I eye the pea which Toby has flicked off his plate, and which is now rolling steadily towards the table’s edge. It drops off, lands on the floor and trundles towards the cooker.

‘ And me,’ Finn adds. ‘It was embarrassing for me as well. Everyone was pointing and laughing . . .’ He tosses his head so his dark, heavy fringe falls over his eyes.

‘Were they?’ I ask, appalled.

‘Oh, come on, honey.’ Jed smiles and reaches for my hand across the table. ‘Maybe you’re just not built for speed.’

‘What are you saying, Jed?’ I blink at him furiously. It’s okay for him; he’s still in excellent shape. Taut tummy, toned legs, infuriatingly firm butt. He even has his own hair and teeth.

‘Just that . . . your talents lie in other areas.’ He grins cheekily, trying to lighten the mood.

‘And what areas might they be?’

He pauses. I can virtually hear his brain whirring as he tries to dredge up evidence of my brilliance. ‘All the, er, stuff you do,’ he says, glancing in desperation at the children. ‘Doesn’t Mum do lots for you?’

Grace nods eagerly. ‘She packs our lunchboxes.’

‘She wipes my bum,’ Toby says approvingly, flicking another pea off his plate.

‘You should be doing that for yourself by now,’ Jed mutters.

‘He can’t wipe his bum!’ Grace titters. ‘Dirty boy with a dirty bum . . .’

‘I’m not dirty,’ Toby roars, and furious tears spring into his eyes.

‘Can I stop having cheese sandwiches in my lunchbox?’ Finn cuts in.

‘Okay,’ I say lightly, ‘but what would you like instead? You said you didn’t want ham, tuna, salami, chicken or beef . . . and didn’t you complain that the egg ones were smelly? It’s tricky to think of stuff you do like, Finn. Maybe you should start having school dinners?’

‘I just don’t like cheese, okay?’ He shudders dramatically, as if I’ve just tried to force-feed him a pilchard. ‘Ham is fine, I suppose ,’ he adds, ‘but not the cheap stuff you usually buy.’

‘What on earth’s wrong with our ham?’

‘It’s kinda . . . wet . And see when you cut my sandwiches? Instead of two fat rectangles could you cut them in triangles like the ones in shops? That’s what James’s mum does.’

I hold his gaze. This is what my life has become. Not only am I not built for speed, I can’t even make an acceptable sandwich. Not like James’s mum does anyway. James’s mum who has a nanny even though she doesn’t work. ‘Would that be an isosceles triangle?’ I enquire. ‘Or would you prefer an equilateral or, um . . . that other kind I can’t remember the name of?’

Finn scowls. ‘Scalene. It’s called scalene, I learned that when I was eight, Mum. Didn’t you get that at school?’

‘No, I only got taught how to pick things up off the floor and wipe arses,’ I growl.

‘Uh?’ Finn barks.

‘I only asked because I might need to borrow your protractor to cut them really accurately.’ I smile brightly, aware of Jed’s caustic gaze.

‘For God’s sake,’ he snaps. ‘It’s time you all stopped being so fussy. Mum has enough on her plate without these ridiculous demands.’

‘Yes, she does,’ I shout, even though I feel physically ill when people refer to themselves in the third person.

‘ I’m not fussy,’ Grace protests. ‘I think you make nice lunches, Mummy.’

‘Thank you, darling. I’m glad someone appreciates them.’

‘Wanna Penguin biscuit,’ announces Toby, whose dinner has congealed in unappetising brown heaps on his plate.

‘I don’t know why we do this,’ I mutter under my breath.

‘Do what, love?’ Jed asks.

‘This! These family mealtimes. I always thought, you know, that sitting down to eat together means we’re doing something right, that we’re good parents and are functioning as a family, getting on and enjoying each other’s company . . .’ I laugh hollowly.

Finn snorts through his nose.

‘But it doesn’t, does it?’ I rant. ‘It always seems to descend into bickering and shouting like this. Give me one reason, Jed, why family mealtimes are a good thing.’ He opens his mouth and decides to shut it again. ‘The whole concept’s overrated,’ I add, grabbing a dishcloth to mop up a small pool of juice from the table. ‘Sometimes I think we’d all be happier if everyone just foraged in cupboards or picked up scraps from the floor.’

‘Yeah!’ Toby exclaims, banging the table with his fist.

‘What’s foraged ?’ Grace asks.

‘It’s when you go out and find food in the wild,’ Jed says quietly, casting me a frown as he gathers up the cutlery.

‘What wild food is there around here?’

‘None,’ Finn says with a smirk. ‘Mum’s just saying it ’cause she’s sick of cooking for us.’

‘No, I’m not.’ I pause, looking around at my children. ‘I’m sorry,’ I add. ‘I don’t mind cooking at all. It’s just sometimes, when everyone’s so picky and critical . . .’ My voice catches in my throat. ‘It’s just been a bit of a day,’ I add quickly.

‘Hey,’ Jed says, squeezing my waist as the children stomp out of the kitchen. ‘Why don’t you chill out for a while? I’ll clear up in here.’ I look at his handsome face: the deep brown eyes, which our three children have inherited, and the full, generous mouth which I loved to kiss, before kissing no longer seemed like the thing to do.

‘It’s okay,’ I say, glancing up at the ceiling. Finn has started drumming upstairs, causing the whole house to reverberate. I’m glad he drums, in that he clearly has musical talent, but occasionally I wish he’d chosen something gentler, like the oboe or flute. I glance at the tragic remains of Toby’s dinner which now looks like a small, collapsed volcano. For some reason, the sight of the unwanted meal – its ingredients shopped for and lovingly cooked – brings a lump to my throat. Ted is lying beside the plate with a daub of gravy on his matted ear.

‘Oh, love,’ Jed says gently. ‘Not still upset about that stupid mums’ race, are you?’

‘No, of course not.’

‘Yes you are. I know you.’ He takes a plate from my hands and sets it on the worktop. I nod, because it’s easier than admitting how crushing it was to see him and Celeste, watching the races, as if she were the mother of our children. I know I’m being paranoid. They work together; they’d come for a meeting, that’s all. ‘Know what you need, darling?’ Jed says gently.