Mums Old Sketches
So, Tommy, have they packed you off, then? asked George Petreson, squinting up at his grandson from his chair as sunlight glared off the patio.
Not waiting for an answer, he shifted his aching foot more comfortably in front of him, rubbed his sore hip, and once again regarded the lanky boy slouching against the wall in a washed-out grey t-shirt and baggy jeans.
Getting Tommy into a new shirt, brushing his hair, or swapping out those worn trainers was a task worthy of a Medallion of Bravery. His mother, Margaret, was at her wits end.
Young man, right after a bath, you need to tame your hair with a comb; its so thick and stubborn, itll stick out like a hedgehog otherwise! insisted the hairdresser, fussing with a comb over his mop of hair, beaming at him in the salon mirror. What a looker, eh?
But Tommy, as soon as his mother paid (humiliationwhat, like he couldnt pay himself?), and they set foot outside, promptly ruffled his hair right back up.
What are you doing? You look ridiculous! Come here, Ill fix it! Margaret protested, digging around in her handbag for the comb.
Dont bother, Mum. I wont walk around looking like a show pony. End of story, Tommy snapped, stalking off toward the Underground, leaving his mum trailing behind.
Those ridiculous jeans, dragging along the pavement, the tartan shirt with one side tucked in and the other flapping loosehed picked all these himself with birthday money, much to Margarets despair. His father, David, just chuckled, forgiving this adolescent rebellion. There were the shambles of a hairstyle, odd-coloured laces in his boots, chains on everything, head tilted back in defiance It was like everything about her son drove Margaret round the bend.
Never mind everyones clever talk about the awkward phase, the need for expression, the fact that Tommy did well in schoolnone of that gave her comfort.
But hes your own son! How can you press him so? Let him learn his own way, Margaret! her mother-in-law, Noreen, would sigh, eyes to the ceiling. The more you try to bend him, the straighter hell stand when hes done.
Thats easy for you to say, Noreen, you see him once a year, Im the one on that bus with him every single day. Its a nightmare! Dave, are you not listening? He needs to grow up human, not a creature! How do you not see that?
But David only shrugged.
And so Margaret soldiered on alone, fighting with her son, while the rest of the family, it seemed, were all on his side.
…Tommy stood near the bins, deliberately spitting into them, checking his mother saw.
He got a shove. Out of the way, you muppet! Have a bit of respect! grumbled the caretaker.
Tommy wanted to answer back, but Margaret grabbed his arm and marched him off.
Thats it! Youre spending the summer at your granddads. Im doneutterly done. I need a break. Ill read parenting books, see if I can figure out how to handle someone like you, she hissed while they rode the escalator. And dont run crying to Gran Noreen. I wont be moved next time!
Tommy pressed his lips together, sullenly watching the stream of faces, the passing lights, people in bright t-shirts and summer dresses.
He wanted to jump off the escalator, dash away and never return. Ever hear me, Mum? Far from your nagging and your flowery perfume, from that critical stare always burning in my back.
Fine by me! Ill go! he barked, wanting to say far, far worse, when he noticed a commotion ahead.
A girl in a long cotton dress, a huge woven bag and two string-tied sets of books slipped and nearly fell. Kind strangers helped her up, picking up her scattered books. The girl fumbled for her glasses and apologised over and over.
Let us through, please, will you? Margaret pushed the girl aside, dragging Tommy along. He looked back, catching the girls eye.
She seemed flustered, apologeticand her glasses slipped down her nose again as she kept dropping books. The escalator monitor hurried to help tidy her things.
These are for our neighbour the librarys shutting so were saving what we can, she explained, wringing her hands.
Pretty, Tommy thought, despite the bookish look. And Mum was so rude. Why be like that? Shameful, really.
He darted for the next train, headed off in the other direction. Let her go home on her own and stew about it! He was sick of being her puppet, someone to tend and boss about. Enough!
Tommy finally got home at sundown. Margaret had rung and messaged him at least fifty times, but he ignored all of itwhy on Earth should he justify himself at sixteen?
Where have you been? demanded Margaret, smudged mascara betraying shed been crying. Dave! Do you hear this? Our only child is turning wild, and nobody cares! Tommy, youll never become anyone at this rate!
She carried on for ten more minutes; Tommy just retreated to the bathroom, locked the door, and dyed his hair a shocking yellow. After rinsing it, he mocked faces at the mirror, then went for dinner.
Whatve you done to yourself? God, Tommy! What now? spluttered Margaret, pausing in disbelief before shrieking, Go! Pack and get outgo to the country tomorrow!
At that, Tommy straightened up andsix feet tall to her five-foot-fourstared her right down. She suddenly seemed tiny. Still, he hated her with a strange, fierce ache.
No trouble at all, he said quietly, fists tight. You wanted me gone as much as I did. Youll have your peace at last. Just dont expect me to watch Dad leave as well. I wont be here to see you left alone. His face twisted into a sour smile, and he shut himself in his room.
Later, his father popped in, tried to ease things, said Margaret was crying.
I couldnt care less, Dad. She kicked me out, Tommy replied, flicking off his lamp.
Tommy always figured things never worked with his mothereven since birth.
It was because Margaret had yearned for a daughter. She dreamt of dolls and songs, matching dresses, a playmate in frilly frocksthings her own parents never afforded. Her mother, Irene, always said it was pointless, no place to wear them; why over-indulge? Decent dresses went farther than one extravagant outfit.
If Margaretd had a daughter, she swore shed have given her the perfect, magical childhoodballet lessons, skating, art, music, all of it.
But shed had a son instead. And she didnt know how to raise boys, nor did she care to learn. So she clung to strictnessiron glove, never give an inch, otherwise hed turn out… unsavoury, like everyone warned.
Come off it, Margaret! I turned out alright, didnt I? Tommy will do just fine. Ease up, leave the lad be! protested her husband, sometimes.
That was a different time. We had different values then.
David did his best, teaching Tommy what he knew, but Margaret always undermined him, insisted he was too soft and clueless.
Eventually, she realised doing homework was Davids chorehe had the patience, she didnt. Still, results were checked with almost military precision. She made Tommy feel he owed her good gradesbecause shed given birth to him!
He owed her good manners and good clothes too, by her standardjust because that was proper.
And herself? Margaret wasnt quite sure anymore. Just a middle-of-the-road, ordinary woman. That was that.
I dont owe anyone anything! Tommy yelled from the hallway. Im going. Ill drive tractors, start smoking, swearingwhatever I like. Dont come after me!
He slammed the door and thundered down the stairs, but his mum hurried after him, seeing him off all the way to Wexley where his grandparents lived.
They met Tommy at the gate, arms open. Margaret passed him over, like a troublesome parcel, shoving his bag at her mum. All my nerves, worn to shreds! Just look at his hair! Anything to spite me.
Alright, love, get yourself a rest, well manage. Tommy, come in, Grans made pancakes and got you cream! You must be starvingboys are always hungry at your age! said George with a grin.
Gran Irene guided the surly teen indoors. George, leaning on the porch rail, flicked his eyebrows with a cluck.
Itll be fine, Margaret. Just a spat. Hes a fiery one, our Tommy, but so are you. Cant close your eyes to anything, eh? So he dyed his hair; its summer, whats it matter?
And what if he starts drinking or gets into trouble next? Will you bail him out from the nick? I wont stay quiet, Dad, not my way!
Oh, Margaret, you fuss and nag, always busy with everyone else, but what about you? Look at yourself! said George, heading back in the house.
Margaret caught the next train home. Tommy didnt say goodbye; he skipped tea, sulked in his attic cubby, and stared out his little triangle windowwatching his mum leave, cranking his music loud on purpose, knowing shed hate the noise. He waited for her to turn round and wave. She didnt, and he wanted to smash something with frustrationso he started kicking at old storage boxes until their contents spilled everywhere.
He found a battered red folder with string ties. He shoved it with his foot, then curiosity got himhe pulled it over and tore the strings open. Surprisingly, he felt sorry for the fraying, ragged cords, and set them gently aside.
He took his shirt off, opened the window for a bit of a breeze, settled in, and opened the folder.
It was thick and ceremonious and full of someones art. Faded coloured pencils and uncertain lines
A girl, definitely. Princesses, over and over. The whole folder stuffed with dolls in sparkling gowns, tiny shoes and handbags, crowns and diadems, flowing curls and little stud earrings.
At the bottom: Margaret.
Future Mrs Shrek, were you? Tommy smirked.
His mums drawings. Tommy didnt drawnot his thing. But she used to, all through rainy summers when she was little, painting her dreams with clumsy pencils while her dad called her our little artist.
Lovely, darling! her mum would smile. Beautiful, Margaret!
Mum, can you sew me a dress like this? Look, it just needs a bow, and those shoeswe saw those in John Lewis, didnt we? Margarets eyes would sparkle.
Her mother tried, sewing Christmas outfits from old curtains and tablecloths, stuck on tinsel and paper snowflakes, but
Its not the same, Mum! Its just not! little Margaret would sigh.
Other girls had store-bought dresses, frilly and glossy with perfect pleats and bows, pearl-studded hairbands and heels. But Margaret had flat feet; she wasnt allowed those.
So all she had were these pictureswhere Margaret was as she wished, always smiling.
Tommy smoothed one of the sketches. Funny to think Mum had once been little, legs dangling off a stool, biting her lip over some fantasy dressonly, the wish never came true.
He put the pages back, wiped dust off the cover, tucked the folder well away and sat, puzzling, even turning off his music. Wanted silence, suddenly.
…He wandered downstairs near noon, coolly surveying the garden from the porch.
Dont be daft, Tommy! called George, patting the step beside him. When Tommy shook his head, George just clucked. All a muddle, thats all. Your mums worn out, lifes unpredictable. So shes a bit fierceits her way, always wanted to manage everything. And youve slipped the leash nowits to be expected.
She doesnt care about me. If I dropped off the planet, shed probably breathe easier. Nothingll ever be alright between us.
He scrolled on his phone, grunted, then slipped out the gate.
Where are you off to? called Gran. Lunch will be ready soon!
Just for a wander. Back in a bit, he waved. The folder was tucked under his armhe didnt know why he took it, just habit.
The village felt as dull, stifling, and sour as his mum found it. Even the strawberries, currants, saskatoonssour. The whole place just reeked of sheep wool and granddads old coat by the doorhorrid!
Much later, when Tommy was grown and had buried his grandfather, hed take that old sheepskin down off the hook, press his face into it, swallow hard not to cry. Too many things hed meant to saynever did…
But that was far off. For now, nobody had left him yet, and he couldnt imagine they ever would. Better to be angry, to wallow a bitit actually felt good, in a way.
Boring. Wandering the lane, feeling gossiping stares from every garden, sitting on a bench by the pond, watching the fish plash and dart, listening to the distant rumble and click of the passing train It was all just dull. Everyone his age seemed to be somewhere else. The wind scattered his mums sketches, and he was annoyed with himself for even taking them.
Eventually, he climbed onto an old log jutting out of the pond. His jeans nearly ripped and trainers got soaked; he uttered a string of curses, pleased with himselffinally talking like a proper bloke.
The log, slick with moss, was crawling with antsone bit his wrist; he flicked it into the water, where a water spider snatched it under. Tommy didnt realise it, but that was what his mum feared most for him: that hed be snatched away, tricked, or hurt…
Settling in, he put in his headphones, listening to the rubbish bands his mother hatedfull of crude lyrics and meaningless noise, shed say. For her, only opera did. Preferably Italian, so she wouldnt understand the words at all.
But Tommy liked that kind of musichard-edged, clear-cut, something raw, straight to the soul!
Kicking his leg in time with the beat, he slouched back, closed his eyes. His wrist still itchy and the pond smelled warm and green. A silly young seagull was learning to dive, always missing its prey and screeching in frustration. Tommy closed his eyes and slipped.
He woke abruptly, a short flight through space and a massive splash.
And someone was laughing.
Cursing, Tommy scrambled in the shallow water, waterlogged jeans heavy as lead, then whipped round, glaring.
Across the bank, standing near the log with her head thrown back, eyes scrunched, was the girl from the day before. Skinny, all knobbly collarbones and long stick legs, with a plain yellow sundress that made her look almost sun-bright and sprinkled with freckles.
Tommy only noticed how mortified he was and barked, Stop laughing.
The girl sobered, frowning. Sorry. Can I help you?
Just go! he snapped, flushed with embarrassment. I jumped in on purpose!
If you really want a dip, weve got a rope swingits much better over there. Its deeper, she said, shyly.
Dont need your advice. Go on! I need to wring my jeans out! He got gruffer.
Someone else mightve snapped back, but the girl only apologised, quietly turning away.
As Tommy wrung out his trousers, she spoke again. Sorryjust, I looked at those drawings. Didnt mean to. Are they your sisters? Theyre lovely!
Tommy swore under his breath. Shed touched the folder. Honourable shame!
My mums, actually. Didnt anyone teach you not to snoop? he snapped.
They fell outpages all over the grass. Your mum? She must be lovely. Have you come to stay with the Petersons?
Tommy slumped onto the bench in just his boxers (thankfully blacklooked like trunks). Then it clickedhed seen this girl yesterday on the escalator.
And you?
Im here with Mum. Were staying at the Browns. Needed a break from the city for Mums asthmaLondons heavy in summer. Daddy sent us here, she explained. Im Lucy.
Tommy,” he replied stiffly. “Saw you yesterday in the Tube. We were on the same escalator and you
Lucy blushed. Yes. Sorry. I was so mortified I dropped all those books. The ribbon snapped. The escalator supervisor got me a new oneshe was so kind. Not the ribbon, the lady, she giggled nervously.
They both laughed, and before long Lucy was looking through the folder, admiring the designs, asking if his mum ever made dresses. Lucys own mother was a dressmaker.
Not exactly, just wishful sketches. What about you lotup here for the summer? Tommy asked.
She nodded seriously, talking as if the yellow hair and attitude didnt even register. Thats right. Mum likes it calm. Im training to be a dressmaker.
My mum wouldnt let me train as a mechanic. Wants me at sixth form. My mates are all working now, Tommy huffed. Shes always on my case.
Mums do mean well, you know, Lucys mum, Vera, said later, when they invited Tommy for tea. She was warm, not a speck of city pride about her. They talked about mushrooms, the weather, how Lucy would go to college for tailoring.
He didnt like talking about his mother theredidnt want a lecture on respecting parents. He fidgeted, made his excuses, left quickly.
As he clattered through the gate, Vera called after him, Margaret Petersons your mum, isnt she? Oh, I remember her! I knew her years agowhat a small world!
Lucy fussed over Veras inhaler, telling Tommy shed have him and his mum round soon enough. Well see shes back in town,” Tommy muttered.
The next weekend, Margaret and David visited, bringing shopping and a new mountain bike. David wheeled it out, beckoning Tommy to help assemble it.
For who? Tommy eyed it suspiciously.
For Granddad, obviously, David grinned. Seven gears, brakes, basketso he can pan about the lanes. No, numpty, its for you! Mum picked it out, we stressed all week it wouldnt arrive in time.
Tommy tried out the bike, zipping down the lane, scattering sparrows, nearly colliding with Mrs Shaw the neighbour, then stopped at Lucys gate. She couldnt ride, so he taught her, grumbling but eventually patient.
That evening, Tommy brought his mum round to Veras for tea.
Is that you, Vera? Margaret smiled shyly, glancing at Tommy. Its been ages
Margaret couldnt help feeling awkward about her plain dress, rough hands, and old sandals. Vera, by contrast, wore a lovely blue frock and matching scarf and bracelet. Margaret couldve dressed like that, money wasnt the issuebut she always sorted everyone else first.
While the kids fixed a puncture, the women chatted indoors. Margaret poured out her troubleshow hard Tommy was, how shed sent him to the countryside as a last resort.
Funny thing, said Vera, sometimes the best things come out of exile. Why not use the time for you, for once? Remember your princess drawings? Lucy and Tommy showed me. Lets make that dream dress now.
She produced paper and chalk, dashed off a sketch and coloured it in. Come on, let me make it for you, Margaret. You always put yourself last. My own health scare shook me out of that habitafter my last asthma attack, I thought, if Im gone tomorrow, Lucyll never see me how I want her to remember me. So I started dressing wellnot just for customers, for myself and Lucy too. Young people can be mortifying harsh but, you know, one day you just have to reclaim a little colour.
Alright, a tipple to celebrate? Vera grinned, pouring a neighbours homemade liqueur.
Two weeks later, Margaret turned up at the gate in a new, pale-lime sunshine dress, so light it danced in the breeze. Tommy stopped, eyes wide, then smiled.
What dyou think, Tommy? his mum asked, nervous.
Wow. Well… yeah. Its brilliant. Proper suits you.
Its not just me, David announced. Id go anywhere with you, petyou look great now, but you always did, you know.
Absolutely top, Tommy added, grinning.
He made his parents go off to dinner without him, roasting kebabs in the garden with Granddad, Vera, Lucy, and Gran Irene insteadgrown-ups, real blokes, for once. They roasted meat, argued over timing, fanned the coals, drank ginger beer and belly-laughed.
Naturally, Tommy burned a hole in his baggy jeans, Granddad knocked over a jar of gherkins, but no one got mad. It was just too lovely. Dont jinx it, Tommy thought, sneaking glances at Lucy, feeling a bit fluttery around her…
Margaret didnt change overnight, but little by little, she stopped haranguing and started trustingboth Tommy and herself. It was slow but good. Even Davids glances changed, softer and fonder than beforeor maybe Margaret finally noticed them.
And when their daughter was born, Tommy eyed the little bundle in Margarets arms with seventeen-year-old bewilderment and a good deal of awe.
Mum, whys she so red? Is she ill? Was I that colour too? he whispered, hiding his face.
Shes not red, shes perfect! insisted Gran Irene. Steady, now, Margaret, support hershe doesnt like it yet.
Margaret shifted her daughter more comfortably.
And Noreen gave Tommys now lime-green fringe a gentle tug. Come here, lad, she beckoned. When he crouched down, she whispered in his ear, You were always grown up and clever from the start. Like your dad before you.
Tommy grinned, and for the first time, he was happy just being himself.
