Page 29 of The F*cking Fabulous Forties Club

‘I’m not sure my dentures could survive it,’ my mother says, ‘but God loves a trier. Let’s do that.’ I can hear her smile on the other end of the line as I say my goodbyes.

My mother’s spoon clatters against her now empty bowl. She sits back and rubs her stomach while eyeing the remaining baguette. ‘I don’t suppose one more wee piece would hurt,’ she says, cutting another slice and spreading it thickly with butter.

I’m tempted to go in for another slice myself but I already know I’ve eaten more than I should and I can feel the bread bloats starting to kick in. It’s bad news when my loose jeans start to feel tight. That’s what I get for abandoning my trusty leggings in a bid to look more put together.

I watch as she slips a small piece of particularly buttery bread to Daniel, who is lying asleep at her feet as if he is her faithful servant. The turncoat.

‘So, what brings you over here?’ my mother asks.

‘Is it so wrong for a daughter to want to spend time with her mother?’ I ask.

‘Of course not. It’s just not all that usual for me to see you this often. What’s this, love, three times in five days? I know I said I was getting my affairs in order and all but I’m honestly not planning on shuffling off this mortal coil any time in the immediate future. I know how you worry.’

I shake my head. ‘Mum, I just wanted to see you. I worry about you, you know that. And for a woman who has no plans to kick any buckets you do like to live life on the edge sometimes. Falling on the ice or dangling out of attics.’

‘Nonsense,’ she says. ‘I’m just living my life same as I always do. There’s no good in me being a burden on anyone else when you all have enough in your own lives to be worrying about.’

‘You are not a burden,’ I say more firmly than I intended and with an unexpected break in my voice. I hate that she worries that I would ever consider her to be little more than an annoying obligation. I hate it because it couldn’t be further from the truth, and if I’m honest, I hate it because I live in fear that my boys will see me that way in the future.

‘You are my mother and I love you very much. If spending time with you is a burden, then load me up. I’ve got wider shoulders than the average woman and years of carrying two healthy boys around have given me an upper body strength well able for you, old woman, so enough of that talk!’ I give her a watery smile as a damn traitorous tear starts to cascade its way down my face.

‘Rebecca!’ my mother says, her voice soft, concern written across her face. She gets up and walks to my chair where she pulls me into a hug and I let her. ‘Pet, I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m sorry.’

‘No,’ I say, ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Yes, maybe I’m over a little more than I normally would be but, you know, these last few days I’ve just been thinking about a lot. You getting your affairs in order, Kitty dying, the time capsule, Laura… all of it. And I realised I’ve been so very selfish, Mum.’

‘You have not!’ she chides. ‘You’ve been great, Rebecca. You’ve always been great. Neither your father nor I have ever had a bad word to say about you.’

‘Not even when my marriage went tits up and I ended up a divorcee?’ I ask, grabbing a napkin from the table to wipe my nose.

‘Especially not then,’ my mother says. ‘You were brave and you got on with things raising those boys well. We were very proud of you. We still are.’

The words are both a joy to hear and so very difficult to absorb. I do my best to hold in my tears as my mother cuddles me close again, allowing me to feel the warmth of her body, the softness of her jumper, inhale the familiar and comforting scent of her Miss Dior perfume. She is hugging her forty-six-year-old daughter but a part of her is hugging every version of me that came before and I hug her back, embracing each version of the mother I have known through my life.

20

THAT LOVELY FELLAH OFF THE TV

My tears have abated and I feel calm again. Mum and I are now sitting side by side on her floral settee and as we chat, she allows me to lay my head on her shoulder. The gentle touch of her hand occasionally stroking my hair makes me feel safe and loved.

Of course it makes Daniel feel a little jealous. God forbid anyone else have their fur stroked other than him. He is doing his best to nuzzle in between us, but I just encourage him to sit on my other side where I can stroke him. Reluctantly he does as instructed, but the message in his eyes is clear. He thinks this is an extreme injustice and he would much prefer Granny’s attention than mine. Well, too bad, Daniel – she’s my mammy and my need is greater than yours.

‘So, tell me more about these letters,’ she says. I’ve already told her that there were three letters in the time capsules, all written by us for us, and that Niamh is yet to open hers.

‘It’s probably silly,’ I say. ‘But they’re like letters to our older selves, detailing our ambitions and what we thought our lives would look like in the future.’

‘And your life doesn’t look the way you thought it would?’ she asks and I nod my head.

‘Nowhere near. I’ve totally let the sixteen-year-old version of me down,’ I say. ‘I’m not writing for some glam magazine. I’m not married to my teenage celebrity crush. I’ve not travelled the world or lived the high life. I’m here, where I started, single – no, worse than single, I’m divorced.’ I grimace. ‘My children are studying in a different country.’

‘It’s only England, pet. It’s not like they’ve run to the other side of the world or like the olden days when you waved goodbye at the docks knowing you’d never see your family again in your lifetime. They could be home in a couple of hours if you needed them.’

I know she’s making sense but still, while all that may be true, it is also a fact that the part of my life I cherished so much – the part where I was raising my babies – is now over. They might come back for high days and holidays, but I think I’m wise enough to know they’re unlikely to ever make this their home again. I’ve seen it happen to so many friends. Opportunities are more plentiful in England or elsewhere and young people follow the work. But even if they do come back, they won’t be coming back the same people they were when they left. They will have several years of independent living under their belts. They will be fully grown adults. Our relationship will still be forever changed.

‘I know,’ I say, feeling a little defeated by it all. ‘But why does no one warn us about this bit? They want us to give our children everything and more and then we have to try and work out who we are when they leave. What’s our purpose in life? Because I’m forty-six and I feel as if I’m starting all over again.’

‘No one warns you because no one would do it if they did,’ my mother says. ‘It’s not like the pain of childbirth. There’s not a sweetener at the end of it – like a newborn to cuddle – to make up for what you’ve been through. If everything goes as it should, children will break your heart.’

Damn, I think. This is not the reassuring chat I was hoping for.

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