January 2013

       St Ives

      ‘Just look at that view!’ I said to Mum as we came to a standstill at the top of a climb. We were on the South West Coast path and the sand of Carbis Bay arced out before us, looking as if it wouldn’t be out of place in the Caribbean. It was one of those crisp, cold days for which the phrase ‘biting cold’ was invented, and Mum and I were bundled up in our woollies but the sun sparkled on the sea, which reflected back the blue of the sky. ‘Isn’t it gorgeous?’

      ‘It makes me wish I was an artist,’ said Mum, her hand shielding her eyes from the brightness of the sun.

      ‘Why don’t you try painting?’

      Since John and I had met in the autumn, we’d ironed out a deal that meant each of us saw Mum once a month, our visits dovetailed so one of us saw her every fortnight. This, we felt, was both manageable for us and good for her: while John took her out for lunches with the family and concentrated on practicalities like scooping leaves out of the gutters or DIY jobs around the house, I tried to do a variety of more fun things with Mum – the spa, shopping, afternoon tea, walks.

      It felt right to me to be doing something and, even though in a corner of my soul, I knew that half a day once a month was not a lot, some of the guilt I’d been carrying about not being a good daughter was being assuaged. I was now a woman who visited her mother regularly; a woman who took an active interest. I walked slightly taller for it.

      Mum had never really said how she felt about our visits, though. Did she realise John and I were keeping an eye on her? I told myself she was pleased to see us but, secretly, I wondered. Mum always opened the door with a smile, but she also insisted that we really didn’t need to keep coming down. She was often on her computer, researching goodness knows what when I arrived, and sometimes I got the impression she’d actually rather I hadn’t turned up. She wasn’t very talkative, especially today. Instead of mooching about the shops like we’d planned, I’d taken advantage of the beautiful day and insisted we take a walk along the coastal path and I wondered now if she’d rather have gone shopping. The coastal walk had been more tiring than I’d imagined, with quite a steep climb that had left Mum noticeably out of breath. I’d already decided we’d take the train back.

      I nudged Mum with my elbow. ‘Why don’t you try painting?’

      Mum’s lips moved, her words snatched by the breeze.

      ‘What was that?’ I craned to hear.

      ‘I used to paint,’ she said. She held her hand up as if holding a paintbrush and made some strokes in the air.

      ‘Really?’

      ‘I went to art classes for a while. Less than a year, I suppose. When you were only little.’

      ‘Oh wow! Were you any good?’

      Mum stared out at the ocean, her hand shielding her eyes from the sun. ‘My teacher thought so. He said I had a talent. Do you suppose you can see the Scilly Isles from here? Or are we facing the wrong direction?’

      ‘No idea,’ I said. ‘But that’s amazing about the painting! Why don’t you do it anymore?’

      Mum looked like she was going to say something else so I waited, but she remained silent, her eyes on the sea.

      ‘Why did you stop painting? If you were so good? Didn’t you want to develop it?’

      ‘Ohh, different reasons. Come on.’ Mum started walking again and I fell into step next to her. ‘I didn’t have time when you two were young,’ she said after a minute or two. ‘Your father liked everything at home to be “just so” and it took a lot of my time. You know, shopping, cooking, cleaning, taking care of you two …’ Her voice trailed off.

      ‘But later? When we were older? Surely you had more time then?’

      Mum shook her head dismissively. ‘It’s just … look, it’s something I didn’t pursue any further. That’s all.’

      ‘It must have been hard, having twins,’ I said, thinking at the same time how I’d give anything for the chance to bring up twins of my own. ‘Pa obviously wasn’t very hands-on.’

      ‘He was very traditional. He thought his role was to provide. And he did that very well. But when it came to parenting …’ Mum laughed. ‘I don’t remember him ever lifting a finger in that department.’

      I fell behind Mum as we had to walk single file through a narrow bit of the path. It descended steeply towards the beach.

      ‘He used to take John on those “boy’s trips”. Do you remember? You know: fishing, camping. And those days at Lords watching the cricket?’

      ‘Oh yes.’ Mum turned around and laughed again, her hair whipping her face. ‘All my idea.’

      I ran a few steps to catch up. ‘What?’

      ‘I thought it would do them both good to spend time together. I used to beg Ralph to take him away.’

      ‘No!’ John used to lord it over me because he’d been picked, not me. I shook my head, recalibrating the memory. I felt slightly sorry for my brother now.

      ‘Yes,’ said Mum. ‘He was so desperate for your father’s approval. Do you remember how he used to follow him around like a puppy? It used to break my heart. I tried to distract him but he was never interested in what we were doing.’

      ‘Wow. He loved those trips. He used to count the days.’ I fell silent, remembering. ‘And then, once they were back, Pa would go back to work and it was as if the trip had never happened and John would mope about the house with a face like a wet weekend.’

      ‘I know. Sometimes I wondered if they did more harm than good.’

      I caught up with Mum once more as we emerged from the path onto the golden sand of Carbis Bay. The tide was out and the sand seemed to stretch for miles.

      ‘I don’t think so,’ I said. ‘You know, I once suggested that I went fishing with them. I thought it would be fun. But John wouldn’t even let me ask Pa. He said I wouldn’t understand because it was a “man thing” ‘. The cattiness in my laugh surprised me.

      ‘I suppose it’s only natural for a boy to look up to his dad,’ Mum said.

      ‘I guess.’

      ‘And we did our own things, too. Didn’t we?’ Mum looked at me. ‘You used to love learning how to do things around the house.’

      ‘I did,’ I said, and I thought about me standing next to Mum, pretend-ironing the hankies while she ironed our clothes; about me standing on a chair next to Mum in the kitchen, sneaking licks of cake batter while helping her make cakes and biscuits – we were probably even in matching aprons that Mum had sewn herself – the picture of ‘70s domestic bliss. Yes, she was right: I had wanted to learn everything. But, with that thought came the memory of the uneasiness that had underpinned my childhood: an unexplained sense of nervousness; a sense I’d always had that we were walking on pins; that our life was a house of cards that could topple at any minute.