Playing By the Rules
Good heavens, Mary! What on earth happened to you?! Why are you in this state?! Who did this to you?! Darling, dont stay silent! I exclaimed, struggling to keep control.
Mary threw her rucksack on the floor and slid down the wall, sitting on her haunches. Her split lips barely moved as she whispered,
Mum, dont shout I just need to sit for a moment
She couldnt finish. She tumbled onto her side, awkwardly bumping her head against Grandads wellies, and passed out.
Mary! I was jolted out of my initial shock and rushed to my daughters side.
I tried to lift her, but my pregnancy and lack of strength got in the way. My vision blurred, and for a moment I nearly collapsed next to Mary, but stopped myselfwhat use would that be? I stepped back, caught my breath, and hollered as loudly as I ever had in my childhood, sure help would come at once,
Dad!
Marys grandfather, Peter, was tinkering with the seedlings in the little greenhouse by the house when he heard my shout. The flowerpot in his hand smashed to the floor as he dashed to the house, imagining the worst. He wasnt ready for grandchild number two just yet, and there hadn’t been any trouble so far that morning.
Emma, whats wrong?! Are you feeling ill? He burst in, and I almost fell into his arms.
Dad, its Mary! Call an ambulance, quick!
The panic wasnt for nothing. They rushed Mary off, but tried to stop me from going with her,
Maam, pull yourself together! Your daughter will be all right! Shes already come round. Her grandfather will go with her. You need to take care of yourself, for the sake of your baby. We dont want any early arrivals now, do we?
Shes my child! Im coming with you!
The young paramedic, failing to persuade me, just sighed,
All right, but try not to get too worked up. Its not good for you, he helped me into the ambulance and made sure I was comfortable.
Thank you.
For what? The man frowned.
For caring.
No need, he brightened for a moment before reverting to his serious expression. He wasnt very convincing: scrawny, short, and more like a teenage lad, with an unruly cowlick at the nape of his neck.
How are you feeling? he asked Mary.
Im okay now. Youd better keep an eye on my mum she loves a good panic. Mary shifted, trying to sit up, but the ambulance jolted over a bump and she yelped.
What is it? The paramedic leaned over, concerned.
Nothing! Just a bump on my head. It hurts.
I saw that. Never mind. Youll live. Youve said youre not feeling sick and your heads clear. So, concussions unlikely. A bumps no reason to make a drama of it.
Wasnt planning to! Mary muttered, then glanced at me. Mum, are you all right?
Im fine, Mary! Now, please tell me what happened?
No! Mary clenched her fists, frowning. I dont want to talk about it.
Teenagers, eh, Mary? The paramedic grinned so openly Mary blinked. What are you staring at? Think I dont remember what its like? Nerves shot to bits, just wishing for a minutes peace?
I didnt say that!
You thought it, though. Thats fine. Your mums just worried about you. Want to know what my mum wouldve done if Id come home in this state?
What?
First, patch me up. Then, give me a good telling-off!
Why?
So Id think twice next time. Im a man, after all. Got to stand by my words and actions. And if I got knocked about, means I couldnt handle a chat like a grown-up.
You cant always talk nicely to everyone Mary sniffed and winced again.
Stick with it nearly there.
Whats your name? Mary reached for my fingers, which curled round hers.
Alex. Alexander.
Nice to meet you
Well, look at her! Alex chuckled, squeezing her hand. Heads all over the shop and shes still minding her manners! I like you, miss.
I like you too, Mary tried to smile, but the ambulance pulled up to the A&E in that moment and Alex quickly pressed a foul-smelling cotton pad to her nose.
Easy now, we dont need another faint.
After Mary had been examined and discharged, Peter took his girls home.
What did they say, Emma?
Almost nothing, Dad. She needs rest; itll pass.
And the fainting?
Aftereffects of stress, I glanced at my dozing daughter. Dad
Not now, love, Peter cut me off. How are you?
All right I had some aches waiting for the results, but Im fine now.
Good, thats what matters Ill make you a hot cuppa, and youll feel better. Calm down.
Dad, how can I calm down? Did you see her face?
Saw it all. Well sort it. But calmly. No histrionics you know theyre no help. We dont need that again.
I breathed out slowly. I knew exactly what he meant. The histrionics Dad mentioned had cost me my relationship with my mother.
On Mums side, our family were all writers. Grandad was a poet, Great-grandad a novelist. My mother, Susan, wrote poetry, too, and even gained a modest reputation for her published collections. Dreamy and gentle, she wasnt made for real life, and my gran ran the household. Gran believed her greatest calling was keeping everyone fed with hot dinners and freshly laundered sheets. Few knew of her other mission: to love, with near religious fervour, everyone in the family. Anyone who crossed our threshold, or sat at our garden table in summer, was hers to care for. Shed always be ushering friends in, swapping dirty cups for clean, and politely declining invitations to sit, Ive a chicken in the oven and a pie to make. You chat, Ill busy myself.
Friends would devour the chicken, then pie, sip tea with her celebrated gooseberry jam, and eventually drift home. Few could have recalled her name, this quiet angel who glided through the house, gently preserving order and keeping watch over all.
Gran died before I turned one. Shed been hurrying home from the station with fresh milk, paused by a birch tree as she felt odd, and sat for a moment. Thats where she was found.
Mum went to pieces, scratching her cheeks with perfectly manicured nails, forgetting her baby entirely; Dad, the only one her parents ever really accepted, took me and popped round to a neighbour, understanding that, whatever happened, the baby needed lunch on time.
As it was, Mrs. Cook had just had a baby herself. Even in the midst of misfortune, she welcomed me in and fed me.
Mum never recovered. She screamed on the veranda, hugging her knees, or scribbled furiously in her notebooks, forgetting I was upstairs asleep and her husband still had to drive a bus after sleepless nights.
Yes, my father was just a bus driver.
He met Mum, Susan, one autumn. She got on his bus and, like something out of a novel, waved a bunch of maple leaves under his nose:
Do you like these?
Dad gazed at this odd young woman, demanding an answer, and shrugged,
No, theyre dripping.
Its rain! Susan laughed, before telling the shoving passengers to hush. Dont crowd me, Im testing my fate!
Evidently, the test worked. Susan married Peter soon after, steadfastly refusing to take his surname.
Peter, how could I ever be a Johnson? Dont be daft! Ill always be a Blackwood.
He didnt argue. By then, he knew that despite her doll-like looks, Susan had an iron will. Her need for control could be impenetrable.
Peter! Shed call, her voice ringing out like a bell. Peter, who hated the childish diminutive, would keep quiet, not wanting to set her off.
Peter adored Susan. Gran saw that from the start and took his side, defending him from the sly mockery of Susan’s father and his friends, whod sneer as Peter tucked into mother-in-laws soup.
Workers of the world unite But Susan, what a curious choice!
You just dont understand! Peter means rock. Hes the foundation! And you lot, youre fools!
Why fools, Susan? guests would bristle.
Because you dont get that you cant live on thin air alone! Peter gets it. You lot have all the fantasy, and none of the sense. Right, enough! Respect my choice or leave.
When Susan was angry, she was beautiful and a little terrifying, so everyone apologised, and talk of Peter not fitting in soon ceased.
Peter didnt care. He looked after me and thought himself lucky until grans sudden passing, which, for him, left a black hole the size of the universe.
But there was no time for despair. He had me to look after, Susan to hold together, and his father-in-law to keep an eye on, as losing gran left him rudderless.
My grandfather followed gran a month later. He would sit on the grass where gran had died, and one day, sitting under that same birch tree, simply never got up.
This devastated Susan. Shed oscillate between wild tantrums and sitting silently in her dads armchair, mumbling to herself. Only Peter realised she was singing: the lullaby her father made for her, and her mother used to sing.
She stopped responding to me. Either Peter or Mrs. Cook next door handled me. She was the one whod first fed me, reasoning one more child is a blessing. While their family was beset by disaster, Mrs. Cook cared for me, kept the kitchen going, and Peter just had to manage.
He tried persuading Susan to see a doctor, but shed just cover her ears and hum more loudly. So, he phoned one of Susan’s fathers friends, inviting him round to the allotment. The man sat with Susan on the veranda, spoke quietly, and then patted Peter on the back as he left,
Give her time. Shes an artist sensitive. This would break anyone. Trust me, shell manage.
Peter had no reason to doubt the man, but his heart ached deeply.
He kept trying, but Susan would just stroke his cheek and shake her head:
No, Peter I want to do this alone
She stopped calling him Peterkin, and all the gentle irony was gone from her voice.
A few months later, on a bleak autumn day, Susan left the cottage wearing only a light floral dress her mum had sewn, and walked out barefoot through the puddles. Mrs. Cook, coming back from the station, saw her by the birch and took her home,
Come on, Susan, time to go in.
Susan obediently followed. Knowing even small details might trigger her, Mrs. Cook took Susan to her house, tucked her up, and left her in the capable hands of her own mother and two other neighbours, rushing off herself to tell Peter.
Peter, not wanting to risk more harm, took Susan to a clinic at last. They berated him for waiting so long, but sent him home to look after me.
Youre no help here now. Well take over.
Susan never returned home.
She died quietly, in her sleep. The nurse later told Peter,
She smiled so softly Like an angel. What did she see, eh? What do you think?
Not what, who, Peter said.
And so Peter was left, alone, with a small child to care for. Mrs. Cook helped, watching over me while Peter worked. They were family in an odd way neighbours both in the city and at their allotments. Mrs. Cooks husband and Peter were firm friends, so no one batted an eyelid when theyd compare foreheads to see if I had a temperature, both calling me their own.
I grew up loved, sometimes mistakenly calling Mrs. Cook mum. She never minded. Shed show me pictures of Susan, tell stories, but never stopped me from calling her mumunderstanding how much a child needs to say that word.
Everything changed when I was thirteen. Mrs. Cooks husband was offered a job in another city and the family began packing, not wanting the separation.
Peter, will you be all right here? Mrs. Cook filled their freezer, determined to back us up.
Whats with all the fuss? Peter smiled, watching her fuss about the kitchen. Were not helpless, you know. You taught Mary to cook. And Im still able, you know!
Oh, Peter! I forgot the cabbage!
Calm down! Well manage. Besides, who needs cabbage? I never liked borscht, and I cant stand stuffed cabbage leaves!
What about coleslaw? Mary loves it!
She can make some! Shell go to the market and buy a cabbage. Shes not two anymore.
When I got back from school, I found Dad and Mrs. Cook on the kitchen, hugging and crying.
Of course not! Shes so grown up We must look after her
At thirteen, thanks to Mrs. Cooks upbringing, I understood far more than most my age. I quietly closed the door, not to disturb them.
Look at the pair of them! Its barely an hour by train and theyre crying like someones off to the moon!
But their worries were not unfounded. By sixteen, Id acquired a serious set of opinions (and a flair for writing). I breezed through competitionspoetry, prose, it made no odds. Dad supported me in everything, though he watched with trepidation, both looking for and fearing hed find Mums traits in me sometimes spotting too many, sometimes none at all. In talent, I was like Susan, but my character was Peters: straightforward, calm, clear about what I wanted.
What I wanted was simple: to be loved.
The affection of Peter and Mrs. Cooks family, who, contrary to their move, always kept in touch, wasnt enough for me. I flourished and wanted to embrace the whole world. Friends were dear to memany and variedand I expected loyalty in return.
No one had told me people are not all the same, and not everyone will open their heart just because you open yours.
My first school romance was my only one. I married my classmate right after school and had a daughter within a year. But it was my father, not my husband, who picked me up from the maternity ward. My sweetheart, whod championed having a baby and set his heart on a cozy family, either panicked at the responsibility or listened to his parents, who insisted he had his whole life ahead and girls like me would come along again. He never said as much, but I knew.
Emma Peter didnt know how to comfort me as I packed my hospital bag.
Dont, Dad. Its all right. Its for the best. He wasnt what we needed. Our futures ahead of us! Everything! Life, happiness, love, Mary! Who knows about himtime will tell.
Youre sure its a Mary? You said they couldnt tell at your last scan.
Positive. Shell be clever and beautiful like the Blackwoods, but strong like usJohnson through and through!
What could Peter do but cuddle me and promise me I had nothing to fear?
He heard me crying at night, at times berating my ex-husband, at others bemoaning my loneliness. But that period was shortmy daughter needed me, and the fresh demands of motherhood stopped me falling into the pit that had claimed my own mum. This, more than anything, was what Peter had feared. But I never let him down.
Mrs. Cook arrived for the birth, leaving her home and the preparations for her own daughters wedding,
Mrs. Cook, why did you bother?! I sobbed into her warm, comforting chest.
Why? Im a gran now! Ive got to help!
Yes! Dad cant cope! I laughed through tears. Hes scared of Mary!
Why?
Shes so tiny. Hes forgotten how its done.
Nonsense! Mrs. Cooks laughter woke Mary. Peter! Dont tell me youre scaredwerent you mother and father to Emma herself? Dont believe it!
Quite right, too.
Peter took his granddaughter confidently, then winked at me.
Was this your sneaky plan, Dad? To make me feel like a mother? I wiped my tears and scrunched my nose, just like I did as a child.
What else could I do? I never know whats best
Mrs. Cook took the baby and answered my flood of questions, wrapping up Mary with those same old nimble hands.
Its no great science, my dear. Just remembera mum always knows if her babys happy or not. Listen to your daughter. Shell tell you everything. You just need to help.
Those were the words I remembered, holding my sleepy daughter, wondering what could possibly have happened to her.
Looking back, Ive learnt to accept that life doesnt always follow the rules. It doesnt matter how prepared you think you are, or how well you try to protect your loved ones. Sometimes, all you can do is gather your strength, offer your patience, and keep loving anyway. And if theres a lesson in all this, its simply this: lovesteady, honest, and enduringis the most important rule in any family.
