Before
My mind drifts back to the first time I met your mother. A whole new experience. I’d thought experiences were supposed to enrich, or at least inform. But then, on reflection, I guess it did the latter; I just didn’t understand at the time. Talk about the need for alarm bells. I didn’t think too much into it other than it was a little odd and perhaps not ideal for when you first meet your partner’s parents. Your parents didn’t come to our wedding. You refused to invite them. Providing such compelling reasoning, I even felt sorry for you.
Six months into our relationship we wandered hand in hand through the streets of Stratford-upon-Avon. It was nearly Christmas, the dark shut-up shopfronts lit up to reflect seasonal atmosphere. Medieval Tudor buildings hidden between recent repugnant appearances. Shakespeare hiding in the background. Or was that me?
‘I don’t get why they’ve put up that plastic tree at the bottom of Bridge Street this year. I’m really annoyed about it. Stratford’s always had real trees. It’s not the same, is it?’
‘What?’ You frowned at me. ‘What are you talking about? I was enlightening you with the specifics of my new anticipated role. Why would I be looking at a tree?’
‘Sorry. It’s just, did you notice, they’ve used a plastic tree rather than the real one.’
You regarded me, a little flummoxed, holding your open hands out. ‘I don’t know, Eve. It’s probably more economical. Anyway, who cares? It’s a tree!’ Clearly, I’d interrupted your flow with my trivialities.
‘It’s not just a tree! It’s a Christmas tree. We’ve always had real trees in town. That’s an ugly artificial eyesore! Where is your soul, Mr Austin?’
‘It is merely a tree, Eve.’ You squeezed my hand. ‘I, on the other hand, have important news about a new appointment opportunity.’ You studied me. ‘Okay, if it’s so important to you, I’ll write a letter to the mayor. Or whichever other blithering idiot I need to, on the council. Tonight. Okay?’
‘Okay. Can you also convey that half the Christmas lantern lights on Sheep Street are out, and the Santa they employed this year was super skinny and wearing a pair of Reebok trainers.’ I confused you. As you gazed down Sheep Street, your expression communicated, so what?
‘Why don’t you put a list together? All the reasons you think the council have ruined Stratford at Christmas. Just in case I miss something?’ You winked at me.
‘I’ll do that, yes, good idea. Change isn’t always for the best. This used to be a beautiful medieval town with sweeping willow trees lining the river! Now look at it. It was always about Shakespeare and Tudor buildings. Now, it’s about betting shops, numerous flipping fudge shops, mobile phone and charity shops.’
‘Eve, you are such an idealist. Come on, one man’s progress is another man’s nightmare. Not all of us are dreamers. Life’s about moving, changing, always looking for the next step.’ One look at my disagreeing face, and you laughed. ‘Let’s return to our conversation, shall we?’
You were particularly jovial; your annual assessment with the company partners had been fruitful. Rewarded with a huge bonus, with promises of great things to come. Apparently senior partnership looming. The long hours, commitment and networking were acknowledged. You were animated with plans and hopes for the future. At just twenty-eight, everything in the bag. No room for ifs and buts. At twenty-three I was still finding my way. I’d completed my undergraduate course at Warwick University with many further years of post-graduate learning and placements to consider. You talked of our future together, another done deal. You didn’t ask me. A mixture of happiness and being marginally overwhelmed fused inside. How were you so certain of where our relationship was going without talking to me about it? We’d only been together a matter of months. We strolled on to the end of the street to view the billboards advertising forthcoming performances at the Royal Shakespeare Theatre. You nudged me. ‘We’ve spare tickets hanging around the office, if you fancy it? A Midsummer Night’s Dream springs to mind.’
‘Lovely, of course.’ I began to laugh.
‘What’s so funny?’
I wondered whether to share; sometimes our humour was so different. ‘Nothing really.’ You raised your eyebrow. ‘I was just remembering a time, in a bar, earlier this year, someone asked Sam what her favourite Shakespeare play was. She said, Robin Hood.’
‘Sorry, I’m not with you?’
The look of sheer bewilderment scrawled across your face made me laugh all the more. ‘It’s just, we’d seen it here at the end of last year. She got… a bit confused.’
‘I see,’ you said.
We drifted left, heading towards the Italian restaurant on the opposite side of the River Avon. It was a cold night and as you articulated your grand notions, I blew steam from my mouth. With no plans as such. Just to wander until we were hungry enough to eat. We’d end up at the popular bistro pub at the top of town. You knew the owners and, without exaggerating, at least fifty per cent of its patrons too.
I salivated as a waft of warm garlic smacked me across the face as we reached the large glass doors of the Italian. You pushed at my hand, directing me through the doorway. Odd? The Italian belonged to a well-known restaurant chain; it wasn’t one of your approved-to-be-seen-in establishments. It smelt so scrumptious; the atmosphere buzzed with a casual warmth. The entrance adorned with boxes beautifully wrapped with metallic papers and iridescent bows. Italians are fine craftsmen at creating atmosphere.
‘Lovely! We’re eating here? Do you think we’ll manage to get a table, or have you booked?’ It was rammed.
You sniffed. ‘Of course we’re not eating here! Just something I need to do. It won’t take long, then we’ll be on our way.’
Your hand, firm around mine, pulled me through the bustling, raucous pre-theatre diners. Walking at the speed of a man on a mission, passing through somewhere unpleasant, making me stumble over my own feet a couple of times. Bumping into unsuspecting guests; kicking a couple of handbags along the way. No grace at all, just a clumsy elephant charging through.
‘Who are we meeting?’ I asked. But either I was drowned out or you chose to ignore me. Not that it mattered; clearly, I was going to meet them regardless. You impatiently scanned the room before eventually stopping at a table with two diners, I guessed in their seventies; both with white hair and fixed, stern faces. Hers, a little more so than his. They eyed you but didn’t utter a word. The man continued with his meal almost gingerly; the woman glared at you, then looked at me, then back to you with a look of revulsion. Why were we loitering here? Clearly you didn’t know each other. You hovered, mute. How awkward.
Finally, you broke the silence. ‘Why are you dining here? How many times have I told you where to eat in town? The food’s abysmal; why waste your money? My money?’
I was stunned by your rude outburst. Hardly a polite way to start a conversation and with no introductions. I couldn’t help but feel a lot embarrassed. Remarkably the woman didn’t bat an eyelid. She continued to chew on a piece of meat, eyeballing you. My eyes rolled from her to you. The hoary-haired woman slowly supped from her glass, still observing you, then picked at something lodged in her tooth.
Eventually she retaliated. ‘Oh, shut up! What is it to you? Your father likes it here.’
Jesus, the penny dropped. Your parents? Surely not. I’d never have spoken to my parents in this manner, or anyone else. Why did, or how could, you? An unfamiliar expression of vulnerability flashed through your eyes as you twitched. I lurked on the sideline trying to decipher how best to act in such cringeworthy circumstances. Your parents; surely, I needed to make a good impression. Surely, they were intrigued as to who I was?
I squeezed your hand. Ignoring her remark, you shoved my hand rather gauchely in the direction of their table, in the manner of a sacrificial offering. ‘This is Eve.’ Your father smiled sheepishly in my direction, swiftly turning away before I could return his gesture. Your mother continued to glare, then made a deliberate point of noticing my red shoes. Sniffed, before returning her attention to her plate without so much as a nod. Another wasted smile on my part. I couldn’t give up; they were your parents.
I offered my hand towards your mother. ‘Hi, lovely to meet you both.’ Another sniff followed. I withdrew my awkwardly dangling hand. ‘Sorry, we’re interrupting your meal. It’s lovely in here, isn’t it, the ambience?’
She cleared her throat before turning dark eyes to you. A shiver danced down my spine; those eyes, almost black in the subtle lighting. Perfect, that went well. The warmth in my cheeks crept upwards; I was aware that I was beginning to glow. Even better, cheeks to match my shoes. Like a gawky ten-year-old I hovered, fascinated by the obscurity in her eyes. Imploring you to make sense of the situation.
‘When did you return home?’ you asked, oblivious to my attempted conversation.
‘Last night. Nice of you to ask!’ she snapped.
‘Did you do as I asked?’ Ignoring her last gripe.
‘Don’t we always do as we’re told?’ she goaded you.
What were they talking about? Did what?
Your father didn’t utter a word, continuing to munch at his dish indifferently. It was so odd. I don’t think I’ve ever witnessed such a cold parental, maternal occurrence.
‘What about the paperwork?’ you persisted.
‘At home. Thought maybe you’d come and see us one day. If you have time, that is. Or if you need something, more like,’ she barked.
Paperwork for what? What had you asked them to do? You’d not mentioned anything. But then you’d not mentioned not getting on with your parents; or your mother, to be more precise.
‘Fine. I’ll have someone collect it in the morning. You did actually open it, didn’t you?’
‘The paperwork?’
‘No. The bank account!’
What bank account? Where had they been?
‘Yes. I just said we did, didn’t I?’
‘Good. Remember not to mention this to anyone.’
‘Like who? We hardly see anyone any more, do we?’
You turned to me, smiling warmly. It threw me completely, the smile being so incongruent with the mood of our small gathering. I attempted another pathetic smile at your mother; she turned away, took a swig from her glass, opening conversation with your father. Our cue to leave. You turned away, ushering me out as brusquely as we’d come in. Back on the pavement I allowed the cold air to extinguish the flames encroaching my cheeks as we continued in silence, turning left up Bridge Street. What was that all about? I waited for you to enlighten me, your hand tense in mine. Instead you began to hum, without uttering a word for at least a further five minutes. Were you upset? I wondered. Finally, you found your voice.
You squeezed my hand. ‘So, where to eat? I’m ravenous, are you?’
What the hell? Nothing? Nothing to say on the matter?
‘Eve?’ You playfully nudged my shoulder with yours. ‘You hungry?’
‘What the heck was that all about, Gregg?’
‘What?’ You looked genuinely surprised.
‘What?’ I asked. ‘That, then, back in there with your parents. Why did you introduce me like that? Why did they behave as they did – or your mum, anyway? And what the hell were you both talking about? I mean, what did you get them to do?’
‘Oh, I see. Listen, please don’t take any notice. She’s always the same. Rude. No etiquette whatsoever.’ You shrugged off my horror.
‘But you were pretty horrible to her too.’ You ignored me. ‘What have you asked them to do for you? What were you both talking about?’
‘Nothing. It’s not important. Forget about it.’ The sound of our out-of-tune footsteps filled the chilly air some moments before you decided to embellish. ‘She visited some properties for me over in Spain, on behalf of a client. He invests in overseas properties. That’s all. I asked her to hand in some documents to his bank. Nothing more. I assumed it would be a pleasant trip for them, with it being an all-expenses-paid jaunt to Spain. But no, nothing makes her happy. Don’t worry about it – she doesn’t understand social conduct. That was normal behaviour for her.’
Your voice muted in my mind. Did you think the interchange was acceptable, normal or, despite explaining it away, were you perhaps as perturbed as me?
‘But—’
‘Please, Eve, not tonight. I’ve had some fantastic news today; this is tainting it for me. Please, trust me. Leave it be. She’s not a pleasant person. It’s unfortunate she’s my mother, but so be it. So, for me, can we move on? Please.’
‘Perhaps…’
‘Believe me. There is no perhaps. Not with her.’
But why take me to meet them, if you knew how she would react? Knowing she would disregard me? How rude of her. It was more like some weird point-scoring ritual, than a mother-and-son get together.
You turned me slowly to face you. ‘I am sorry you had to meet my parents at all, if I’m honest. There never would have been a good time. My mother is discourteous, unappreciative and embarrassing. My father is too faint-hearted to do or say anything about it. We rarely speak, ever.’
I couldn’t even imagine how it had become so bad. My disappointment in you bowed to sorrow, such a sad situation. It didn’t bode well for the future either. I didn’t realise it then, but it would be the last I saw of them. I didn’t realise it then, but they too were tools in your box.