Mary Mary Quite Contrary
Clare Tanner
Mary, Mary, quite contrary
Clare Tanner
Copyright 2011 Clare Tanner
Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary
“What are we going to do about her? It’s gone way beyond a joke. Mark, are you paying attention? And will you stop doing that? It’s a disgusting habit.”
Mark sighs quietly as he brushes the unused specks of tobacco back into the packet with his hand. There is a slight pause as he seals the cigarette. “There’s nothing we can do, Kimberly. She’s made her decision. If you remember, you were the one who wanted her to break out of her rut and do something more interesting. "
“Yes, but not like this. She’s gone completely mad. "
“And you’ve become middle-aged,” her brother replied, “and you aren’t even 40.”
“At least I’m a grown-up. I’m carrying this family single-handed.”
The thin plume drifting upwards becomes a fractured pattern of smoke signals, as Mark erupts in a fit of coughing, or laughing - it’s hard to tell. “Listen to yourself, big sister. You sound just like Mum. This role reversal is working both ways. I’m the only one who hasn’t changed.”
“Yeah. You were born selfish. At least I have Mum’s best interests at heart.”
Hmm. That’s debatable. Still, it is true that I have Kimberley and Mark, my two grown up children, to thank for my new lease of life. But I don’t think it’s quite what they had in mind.
I’ve been sitting at my dressing table, blow-drying my hair. I used to give it a quick blast with the hairdryer from a standing start, while making the bed and gulping down a cup of tea and a piece of burnt toast. But now it takes so long that I have to sit down. The new highlights and carefully layered style take fifteen years off my age, I think. I’m especially keen on the tiny streaks of fuchsia that my hairdresser playfully added this time, much to Kimberley’s disgust. I’m giving it a quick tweak with the straighteners, when I hear the patio doors open, and the painful squeak of the aluminium garden furniture as Mark sits down. This is how I happen to hear the brief conversation that my children have about my changed persona. My new self finds it quite gratifying that I, Mary Banfield, have succeeded in embarrassing my children, not by being out of touch, but by embarking on a period of renewal.
I was always brought up not to eavesdrop. My mother said it was wrong, and besides, you might hear things you didn’t like. So I did what I was told, just as I always did, trying to do the right thing. I always felt that if you planned your life really carefully, you could avoid those horrible, gut-wrenching surprises, the ones that left you sobbing for days, miserable and angry at the knowledge that you had done nothing wrong, and yet the worst had still happened. But it never worked. I never seemed to manage to control the passage of my life. Instead, it always hit me in the face like a blast of cold air in the depths of winter. But it didn’t stop me trying, not until that day two years ago when I listened by accident to another conversation between my two children, sitting in exactly the same place in my garden, while I was in my bedroom. But this time I wasn’t drying my hair. I was curled up in the foetal position on my bed, clutching a soggy tissue as my body was racked with sobs.
“What are we going to do, Mark? It can’t go on like this.”
There was a pause before he replied. He always was the more thoughtful one, although Kimberley just thought he was lazy. “You mean Mum, I suppose. It’s not really up to us, is it?”
Listening upstairs, I felt my sobs subsiding, as a tiny seedling of curiosity struggled to grow, beaten back by the immense thicket of self-pity I’d erected around myself.
Kimberley didn’t reply. That in itself was unusual. I listened more intently. “Look,” Mark said, ”you really can’t expect her to bounce back. They’d been together for ever, thirty-five, forty years or whatever it was, and then Dad suddenly walks out. How do you expect her to feel?”
“Quite the agony uncle, aren’t you? Of course she’s upset, but she’s got to get over it and get out there. Show him her life isn’t over.”
I sat up now, fuelled by my anger. How the hell did she know what I felt? She’d always done exactly what she wanted. I was the one things happened to, buffeted by other people’s actions. I flounced down the stairs, not caring how dishevelled I looked, pushed open the French Windows and confronted them.
“If you’re going to talk about me in my own house, I’d like to be here to defend myself.”
They both turned to look at me. I tried not to notice the pity in their eyes.
“Why don’t you sit down with us, Mum?” Mark said gently, waving around one of those disgusting roll-up cigarettes. “We weren’t saying anything we wouldn’t say to your face.”
“We didn’t get time to say much at all. You stormed out here almost as soon as we started talking.” I looked at Kimberley critically. There was a sharpness to her that was completely lacking in her younger brother. I’d always thought women were supposed to be more empathetic, but it didn’t seem to work like that in our family.
“OK,” I answered, sitting down. I leant back and crossed my arms, which was the closest I could get to relaxing at that moment. I was also suddenly aware that I was wearing a grubby old nightdress and not much else. I didn’t want to inspire more pity with the sight of my sagging flesh. “You carry on talking. I’d love to know why it can’t go on like this. What else did you have in mind?”
Kimberley had the grace to look embarrassed. She looked intently at her feet, inspecting her perfect pedicure, as she decided what to say.
“The thing is Mum, I know it’s tough, but you’re not doing yourself any good by just….wallowing.”
“Wallowing!” I jumped out of my chair in indignation. “How dare you? After all that’s happened to me.”
“It happened to us as well, Mum,” Kimberly shot back at me.
"No it didn’t. Not like that. He didn’t leave you. He left me. You’re grown ups.”
“So are you, Mum,” Mark said softly. It was a ridiculous thing to say, really, because our situations were completely different, but he did have a point. I’d been so wrapped up in my own suffering that I hadn’t stopped to think about how my adult children were handling the situation. I don’t know why it is, but I’ve always been able to listen so much more easily to the things Mark says than his sister. Perhaps Kimberly and I are too alike. “We obviously can’t understand how bad it is for you, how much worse than it is for us, but we’re worried about you. We want to help, but we can’t get through to you. You’ve gone into a shell.”
“Talk to us mum. Tell us how you’re feeling, and maybe we can help.” Kimberley sounded gentler now, “or would you feel more comfortable talking to a counsellor?”
“I’m not going to pour out my heart to a stranger,” I said hastily.
“Sometimes it’s easier.”
“Not for me.”
“That’s fine, Mum. We’re happy to listen.” Mark smiled at me encouragingly, and stroked my arm. How did he get to be so mature, suddenly, when I wasn’t paying attention?
“You’re sure?”
“We’re sure.”
I looked full into their eyes, probably for the first time since Robert walked out. It was a deeply painful experience, like drawing the curtains open on a bright sunny day when your eyes are full of sleep and you just want to hide. I realised it wasn’t self-pity I felt, but shame. Deep down, I thought it was my fault that I hadn’t managed to hold on to my husband, the one I’d chosen precisely because I thought he was boring and dependable. The feeling of inadequacy lifted slightly as I recognised it for what it was, a pointless emotion. What I saw in their eyes wasn’t disappointment and pity, as I expected, but sympathy and puzzlement. They really didn’t understand wh
y I was taking it so badly, and suddenly, neither did I. I realised that I needed to explain.
“There are some things I need to tell you, but I really don’t know where to start.”
“Shall I make some coffee, Mum?”
“I’ve got a better idea,” said Mark, getting up. “Back in a minute.”
He came back almost immediately, holding a bottle of wine in one hand, three glasses splayed between the fingers of his other, and a corkscrew between his teeth. Those gap year jobs working his way through the bars of the world hadn’t gone to waste.
“Mark, it’s only eleven o’clock!” Kimberly said.
“So,” I countered. “Seems like a good idea to me.” Just the sight of the bottle lifted my mood, although no-one could have called me a problem drinker. Too cautious for that.
Mark poured me a glass and I looked at it for a while, not wanting to damage the perfection of the moment, the cold
