Ali Smith - How to be both

How can that advert exist and her mother not exist in the world?

She didn’t say it out loud, though, because there wasn’t a point.

It isn’t about saying.

It is about the hole which will form in the roof through which the cold will intensify and after which the structure of the house will begin to shift, like it ought, and through which George will be able to lie every night in bed watching the black sky.

It is last August. Her mother is at the dining-room table reading out loud off the internet.

Meteor watchers are in luck tonight , her mother is saying. With clear skies predicted for the Perseid shower for much of the UK, up to sixty shooting stars an hour should be visible between late Monday evening and early Tuesday morning .

Sixty shooting stars! Henry says.

He runs round and round the table really fast making an eeeee noise as he goes.

Sky News weather presenter Sarah Pennock , her mother says, said showers will fade during the night giving many people a chance to see the astronomical spectacle .

Then her mother laughs.

Sky news! her mother says.

Henry. Headache. Enough, her father says.

He catches Henry, lifts him up and turns him upside down.

Eeeeeeeeeeee, Henry says. I am a star, I am shooting, and turning me upside down will not stop meeeeeeee.

It’s just pollution, George says.

You won’t say that when you see them shooting so beautiful over your head, her mother says.

Fully, George says.

Every meteor is a speck of comet dust vaporizing as it enters our atmosphere at thirty six miles per second , her mother reads.

That’s not very fast, Henry says still upside down from beneath his jumper which has upended and fallen over his face. Cars go at thirty.

Per second, not per hour, George says.

One hundred and forty thousand miles an hour , her mother reads.

Remarkably slow really, Henry says.

He starts singing words.

Cars and stars, cars and stars.

It’s exciting, her mother says.

Really cold tonight, George says.

Don’t be so boring, George, her mother says.

Ia, George says because this conversation takes place when she has started insisting that her mother and father, when they use her name, call her her full name.

Her mother snorts a laugh.

What? George says.

It’s just that when you say that, well. It sounds like you’re saying something funny from my youth, her mother says. It’s how we used to do caricatures of the rich kids. D’you remember, Nathan?

No, her father says.

Yah, George, yah, her mother says pretending to be a posh girl from the past.

George can choose react or ignore. She chooses ignore.

We wouldn’t be able to see anything anyway, she says. There’ll be too much local light.

We’ll put all the lights off, her mother says.

I don’t mean our lights. I mean all the lights of the whole of Cambridge, George says.

We’ll put all those lights off too, her mother says. Brightest around midnight . Right. I know. We can all get in the car and drive out of town to the back of Fulbourn and watch them from there, Nathan, what do you think?

Up at six, Carol, her father says.

Good, okay, her mother says. You stay at home with Henry, and me and George, I mean George yah, will go.

Georgia and I, George says. And I’m not going.

That makes three of you George yahs not going, her mother says. Okay. All three of you plus your father can stay at home with Henry and I’ll go myself. Nathan, his face is going very red, put him down.

No because I want to see the sixty stars, Henry says still upside down. I want to see them more than anyone else in this actual room.

It says here there might even be fireballs, her mother says.

I want to see fireballs a lot actually, Henry says.

It’s just pollution. And satellites, George says. There’s no point.

Miss Moan, her father says shaking Henry in the air.

Ms Moan, her mother says.

Pardon my world-stopping act of political incorrectness, her father says.

He says it gently and means it both funnily and nastily.

I prefer Miss, George says. Till I’m, you know, Doctor Moan.

Too young to know the political importance of choosing to be called Ms anything, her mother says.

She could be saying this to George or her father. Her father is ten years younger than her mother which means, her mother likes to say, that they have been formed by very different political upbringings, the main difference being a childhood under Thatcher versus a late adolescence under Thatcher.

(Thatcher was a prime minister some time after Churchill and long before George was born who, according to one of her mother’s most successful Subverts, gave birth to a baby Blair, someone George actually remembers being prime minister from when she was small, him in a nappy and so on but standing fully-formed and otherwise naked on a shell (not the beach kind, the missile kind) with Thatcher all puffed-out cheeks blowing his hair about and baby Blair with one hand over his crotch and the other coy at his chest and the caption underneath: The Birth of Vain Us. That Subvert, George remembers, was everywhere. It was funny seeing it in all the papers and online and knowing and not being able to tell anyone that it was her mother who’d pressed the button that sent it out into the world.)

What the age difference between her parents means in real terms though is that they’ve split up twice, though twice so far got back together again.

And I suppose the days of you being at least gracious to me about feminism are long gone, but I won’t complain, since it won’t make any difference and since the history of feminism teaches one never to expect graciousness anyway, and when you’re putting that child down, try not to put him down too hard on his head or you’ll break his neck, her mother says without looking up from the screen. And George. Or whatever your name is. If you miss seeing this with me you’ll regret it for the rest of your days.

I won’t, George says.

Not says. Said.

There was an obituary in the Independent, because although George’s mother wasn’t famous like people who get obituaries usually are, and although she didn’t have tenure any more, she still had a quite important job at a think-tank and occasionally published opinion pieces in the Guardian or the Telegraph and sometimes also the American papers in their European editions, and a lot more people knew who she was after it was unveiled in the papers about the guerrilla internet stuff. Dr Carol Martineau Economist Journalist Internet Guerrilla Interventionist 19 November 1962–10 September 2013 aged 50 years . It says, in the first paragraph, renaissance woman . It says childhood Scottish Cairngorms education Edinburgh Bristol London . It says articles and talks ideology pay ratios pay differentials literal ideological consequences spread of UK poverty . It says thesis backed by IMF recognition inequality and slowdown in growth and stability . It mentions her particular bugbear, chief executive interests workforce kept low-waged . It says discovery three years ago Martineau one of the anonymous influential satire Subverts online art movement thousands supporters imitators .

It says tragic unsuspected allergic reaction standard antibiotic .

The last thing it says is is survived by. That means dead. Husband Nathan Cook and their two children .

It all means dead.

It all means George’s mother has disappeared off, or rather into, the face of the earth.

Every day before work George’s mother, when she was alive (because she can’t exactly do it now being, you know, dead), used to do a keep-fit set of stretches and exercises. At the end of this she would always do a dance round the living room for the length of a song on a playlist on her phone.