The Mother And Daughter Diaries. Clare Shaw

your knickers off. Smile on top, cry underneath. I can see all that now, but there was no set plan at the time. It just happened. I totally lost control of me.

      One of my biggest performances was at my cousin Victoria’s wedding when I played the part of the perfect daughter. Oscar-winning stuff, but my mask slipped off. I went out of character. I let the real me show through, and raw emotions frighten people. I wasn’t the only one playing a part. I had a talented supporting cast. Mum was acting out the role of the perfect mother of a jolly happy Sunday roast family. Me? I was eager to please, but at that time I didn’t understand why.

      When I got up that day and saw the dress hanging there, it looked boring and ordinary. It was suitable—for the weather, for the occasion, for someone who was frightened of standing out in the crowd yet who wanted to. The part of me that wanted to stand out felt a sort of regret. I draped the dress onto me and looked in the mirror. It looked better than it had in the shop. There would be boys at the wedding and I looked good. I had lost some weight for the event and the dress hung off me as if it were on a coat hanger. Perfect. Victoria would be the one in the wedding dress. I knew I would be envious. She was the one with the boyfriend, soon to be husband, but I was slim and very nearly elegant. And he might go off her.

      Sixteen and no boyfriend. Sad or what?

      Eliza came in.

      ‘Where’s your dress?’ I asked.

      ‘Oh, I’m wearing this,’ she explained casually, fiddling with the make-up on my table.

      I was stunned. It hadn’t occurred to me that you could do that. Ignore the dress put out by your mother.

      Eliza started to sing.

      ‘Get out, Eliza, there’s no singing in here.’

      Eliza made me feel like a blob.

      ‘Hello, I’m Jo, Lizzie’s eldest daughter,’ I practised.

      Mum came in and sighed. She was relieved to see the version of the daughter she wanted.

      ‘Do I look fat in this?’ I asked.

      She laughed. People don’t always pick up their cues in this pantomime we call life. I told Mum I was excited about the wedding. I told Eliza it would be fun. Sometimes saying it can even make it happen and I think I was excited, but my feelings were damp that day. Ever since getting my GCSE results, it felt as if the only emotion that dared speak its mind was anger.

      I remember sitting upright in the car when we drove up to the school on results day.

      ‘You’ll be fine,’ Mum had said. It was expected. By the school, by Mum, by me. Expectation had its own pressure. Failure would be a steep fall, and I was nervous when I glanced at the piece of paper in my sweaty palm. Eight A* grades, four A grades. Best results in the school. Nearly perfect. I felt relief and pride and ecstatic joy. For about four minutes, before a feeling of disappointment and then indifference misted up my mind and dampened the positive stuff. I felt like screaming out, ‘So what!’ I phoned up friends and relatives, hoping their pleasure and excitement would transfer to me. Like catching chickenpox. But I was immune. A blob.

      Still, I think I really did feel excited about the wedding. Underneath. Perhaps I had just forgotten how to let my emotions show, like a Coke bottle with the cap stuck on. Even shaking it up wouldn’t help get the fizz out.

      Mum sorted out the seating arrangements in the car. She organised who could choose the radio stations. She controlled the steering-wheel and the conversation. We sang and laughed and it sounded like happiness. Or something…We had to drive all the way to the end of Norfolk, miles and miles and miles. The end of the world.

      Mum drove in trainers. She had gone on and on about her new shoes. Mostly she goes on and on about my exams, on and on about Eliza’s talents, on and on about the food she sells at work and on and on about how you have to laugh. No option—you have to laugh. These are permanent ramblings, they never change and she recycles them on a daily basis, like the repeats on TV—you know what’s coming but there’s nothing else to tune in to. Then there are the new episodes. Like the shoes.

      When we arrived, Eliza leant over the back of the seat and retrieved the shoes. Giggling, we hid them behind our backs and waited for Mum to open the boot and think she’d forgotten them.

      We often played jokes on Mum. And on Dad. Mum and I often played jokes on Eliza. But nobody ever played a joke on me. People were too careful with me. As if I had a ‘Handle with Care’ sticker across my soul. Was I really that fragile, even then?

      The church was beautiful, with flowers and everyone dressed up and the choir and the organ. It was so traditional and sort of old-fashioned. And everyone was looking warmly at Victoria, pleased she was so happy. I wanted to be pleased for her, but jealousy is in my blood. I could feel it then, pumping around my arteries, and nothing could stop the flow. Jealousy is hot. It makes blood simmer, gently at first, then violently. You cannot see, hear, feel, taste or touch anything. Not in your own skin. Not if you want to be in someone else’s skin. Feel what they’re feeling, see what they’re seeing.

      ‘Very young, but in the circumstances…’

      I could sense my mother’s thoughts, smug judgements as she perched between the daughters she thought she knew well. I thought about my life, I thought about love, I thought about meaning. Big thoughts. Scary thoughts. And then we laughed at a fat woman’s hat.

      Outside Mum pushed me into talking to old ladies. I must impress them, make my mum look good—by proxy. I hated it. Didn’t they see my unease? Sense my reluctance? But maternal eyes were on me and I wanted to please. Why? I wanted to please and I wanted to rebel. The definition of unhappiness: wanting two opposite actions at the same time. Can’t choose. Can’t decide. Makes you feel like shit. I talked pleasantly. Kind of.

      ‘How’s your budgie doing?’ I asked sarcastically. I’d guessed correctly that the lavendered aunt kept a budgie. She was the sort. Liked garibaldi biscuits, crocheted cardigans, watched Countdown, supported animal charities, never said ‘vagina’ out loud.

      We went to Uncle George’s house for the reception. Mum made the same joke to everyone about what a nice tent it was. Eliza escaped into her own world, I was stuck in this one. I was still on display. Here we have Lizzie’s fabulous daughter. How clever. How bright. How charming. How tall. What big hips. I stuck to the script—exams, hockey, university, violin lessons, youth hostelling. Don’t mention Dad—Mum’s unspoken law.

      ‘I haven’t decided yet but I’m thinking about medicine or maybe pharmacy…Yes, Eliza was brilliant in Annie… She’s got another show coming up…Maybe Cambridge. The school think I’ve got a chance…Not much time for boyfriends. I did have one but I’ve been really busy…That’s right, Eliza’s my sister. Yes, very talented…Duke of Edinburgh, yes—I’m doing my silver…Yes, Eliza is quite a character.’

      Yes, I hate Eliza sometimes. Yes, I get fed up talking about her. Yes, I wish my whole existence wasn’t chained to exams. Yes, I do want to scream out loud. Yes, I do need to punch someone full on in the face. You and you and you. But mainly me. Don’t worry, I won’t. Mum can rely on me.

      I was introduced to Stephen and Ben. Ben was just about to start sixth form like me. Stephen was younger.

      ‘They could do with some decent music in here later,’ suggested Ben. ‘Screamhead are local to these parts. They should have booked them.’

      ‘That would be totally awesome,’ I replied.

      ‘You like them?’

      ‘Yeah, I’ve got their CD—All Quiet.’ Well, I was thinking of getting it.

      ‘A girl of good taste as well as good looks.’

      I looked in his eyes for a flicker of sarcasm, but he meant it. My diet had paid off. Nearly an hour with the hair straighteners had been worth it.

      ‘See you later, Jo, I’ve got to do the relative thing, yawn, yawn.’