Take Mum Out. Fiona Gibson
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‘So you’re setting up a meringue business,’ Erica says as I show her into my kitchen.
‘That’s right,’ I reply. ‘I’ve been testing different recipes and I’m all ready to go – as soon as I have official permission, of course.’ I’m aware of this thing I do – of putting on an oddly posh, grown-up voice when I’m in the company of an Official Person. In her navy blue trouser suit, with her shiny auburn hair swinging around her pointy chin, Erica falls into this category. She is an inspector from the council’s environmental health department. Her job is to ensure that I don’t poison the public – i.e. that my fridge isn’t seething with listeria or my cooking quarters populated by mangy cats. They aren’t, of course, but still, Erica’s very presence is making me nervous. It’s like when you’re being followed by a police car while driving. Is something broken on my car? you start wondering. Could the wine I guzzled two nights ago still be swilling around in my bloodstream?
‘I love meringues,’ Erica enthuses, peering into my fridge which I’ve scrubbed so thoroughly even its light seems to shine more brightly. ‘It’s the texture, isn’t it? The crunchiness on the outside, the gooey bit in the middle …’
‘That’s right,’ I agree. ‘I imagine it’s impossible to feel depressed when you’re biting into a meringue.’
She laughs politely and marks a few boxes on the form attached to her clipboard. I try to sneak a look, but can’t read it. Anyway, I must stop feeling so paranoid. I spent the whole of yesterday preparing for her visit, and so far it seems to be going well. Erica caresses my cooker hob and ticks another box on her form. ‘D’you have a name for your business?’ she asks.
‘Yes, I’m calling it Sugar Mummy.’
‘Oh, that’s cute. That definitely has a ring to it. I assume you have children then?’
‘Yes, two sons.’
‘Sons,’ Erica repeats with a slight shudder. ‘Oh, I take my hat off to you. I don’t know how people cope with boys.’
‘Really?’ I say, acting surprised. In fact, I have encountered this anti-boy attitude on numerous occasions since Logan and Fergus were tiny; a fierce aversion to young males, as if they are not miniature humans but incontinent pitbulls, prone to violence and likely to pee wherever the mood takes them (as opposed to little girls who’ll quietly colour in and groom their teddies for weeks on end).
‘Well, I couldn’t,’ Erica asserts. ‘My sister has three and her place is a wreck. She used to collect Danish glassware and of course that’s all been trashed.’
‘Oh dear,’ I say, wanting to add, Why didn’t she put it away in a cupboard? However, it’s crucial to keep Erica on my side. I’m itching to get my business started, and need to convince her that Logan and Fergus won’t be constantly charging into my ‘professional’ kitchen, bringing in live bugs to show me or using my mixer to blend potions of rotting leaves and soil.
‘Well, they’re thirteen and sixteen,’ I tell her, ‘so we’re past that crazy stage now.’
‘Oh, teenage boys,’ she goes on with a dry laugh, ‘and their terrible bedrooms. Eugh. That horrible dank duvet smell …’
‘They’re actually incredibly helpful around the flat,’ I fib, trying to quash the defensive edge to my voice.
‘Really?’ Erica widens her eyes. ‘Handy with the Mr Sheen, then?’
‘Yes, very.’ Actually, they back away from it as if it’s pepper spray, and neither seem capable of operating the Hoover without choking it. Plus there is an underlying smell around here, which I’ve tried to obliterate by burning the sandalwood and ginger oil my friend Ingrid gave me, with the promise that it would ‘uplift the senses’. On this rain-lashed November afternoon, both boys are off school with streaming colds, and the flat is tainted with the whiff of the unwell.
‘D’you have any children yourself?’ I ask pleasantly as she peers into the oven.
‘Just the one, a little girl.’
Ah, that figures.
‘I was terrified she was going to be a boy,’ Erica adds, straightening up. ‘In fact, I paid to have an extra scan to determine the sex as early as possible.’
‘Really?’ I have no idea how to respond to this.
‘If it was a boy,’ she goes on, ‘I wanted to be prepared.’ What could she possibly mean? Line up an adoptive mother for him? Just as I’m about to say they’re not that bad really – I mean, look at me, I’m healthy and happy and alive (well, alive) – Fergus, my youngest, yells, ‘Mum!’ and stomps along the hallway towards us.
‘I’m still with the lady,’ I call back. ‘Won’t be long now.’
‘Mum. Can’t get this stupid thing to work at all.’ He marches into the kitchen, wavy caramel hair askew, clad in just a pair of baggy grey boxers. He is clutching a small silver gadget which he thrusts into my face.
‘Fergus,’ I say, ‘you might want to go and put your dressing gown on, love.’
‘Nah, I was really boiling up, like my whole body was soaking. And the tubes at the back of my nose are totally bunged up with phlegm …’
Erica pretends to study our spice rack. ‘I’m a bit busy right now,’ I say briskly, trying to transmit the message: Please leave this kitchen immediately. Curiously, Ingrid’s sandalwood oil appears to be failing on the mood-lifting front. Fergus sneezes without covering his mouth, and something actually shoots out, causing Erica to shrink back in alarm. Christ, he’s probably infected her now. ‘It’s stopped working,’ he says, stabbing at the gadget’s buttons. ‘It’s gone weird.’
‘What did you expect for two pound fifty?’ Logan asks, wandering into the kitchen bare-chested in a pair of particularly unfetching tracksuit bottoms, bringing with him the powerful meaty pong of unwashed underarms. Neither of my boys have acknowledged our visitor.
‘Er … what’s gone weird?’ Erica asks Fergus politely.
‘My translator,’ he mutters, scowling at the gadget’s tiny screen.
‘Oh, what’s that for?’
‘For translating,’ he replies, rolling his coffee-brown eyes as if to say, Who is this bloody fool?
‘He likes buying old gadgets from charity shops and trying to get them to work,’ I explain.
‘That’s, um, resourceful,’ Erica says unconvincingly as Logan blows his nose on a square of kitchen roll.
‘Anyway, boys,’ I say firmly, ‘could you leave us for a minute please? This is important. Remember I told you—’
‘It has translations for thirty-six thousand words,’ Fergus cuts in, ‘in seven languages.’
‘Wow, that’s impressive,’ Erica says, checking her watch.
‘Tell it to say something,’ he demands.
Our visitor’s jaw tightens. ‘Er – hello, how are you?’
Fergus prods a few buttons. Ich bin diabetika, it chirps robotically. He touched my breast—
‘It said it’s diabetic,’ Fergus starts.
‘And someone touched its breast,’ Logan chuckles, twanging the elasticated waistband of his trackies.
‘Yes, we heard that.’ My posh