The Mother And Daughter Diaries. Clare Shaw

like your routine, that’s wicked.’

      I loved my sister—at that moment.

      I wandered around the garden. I was happy to be with my own thoughts, now that my thoughts were good ones. Amazing gardens. Uncle George and Auntie Sue are rich. I could be rich if I wanted. But I could end up poor. I didn’t want to think about the future. I didn’t want the future to happen. I was sixteen. That’s old enough. Listening to Screamhead is better than having a mortgage. The now that I know is better than the then that I don’t.

      I saw Ben again on his mobile. He waved. I went over.

      ‘My girlfriend checking up on me,’ he said with a grin.

      Victoria and her new husband were coming towards us. We watched them gliding along the lawn. It took a long time. We waited. Then we talked about weddings. Eventually I excused myself. I said I had to find my mother. As if. I walked around the outside of the marquee. The canvas rippled in the breeze and looked vulnerable. Surely torrential rain could get through the thin material. Surely a raging storm could blow it clean away. But storms and torrential rain rarely happen. Life is full of showers and brief interludes of sunny spells. Or so it seemed.

      I slid into the marquee. A big cluster of guests was gathered at one end as if the ground had been tipped up and everyone had fallen together. A solitary figure stood staring at the food. My mother.

      She loved food. All her plans were about food. Her plans for the day always included mealtimes, her plans for the future involved a restaurant. When I was little, there was always a picnic. A trip to the beach plus picnic. An outing to the zoo plus picnic. A tedious journey to a forgotten relative—plus a break for a picnic. Before we left, the kitchen would smell of picnics. A mixture of mayonnaise, coffee and plastic. The basket was like Little Red Riding Hood’s. Food bulging out like buttocks under a red and white checked cloth. Gross.

      There was an excitement about a picnic—my mother would whisk off the tablecloth with a flick of her wrist, like a magician—but there was no surprise. It was always the same. Soggy egg sandwiches. Lemonade. A flask of coffee. Ginger cake. Bruised apples.

      ‘Eat up, eat up,’ my mother would trill, like the repetitive cry of a seagull.

      And there she was, smiling at the wedding food. Then she turned around and smiled at me. I think she smiled—there was some distance between us. I heard Ben’s voice behind me, talking about football. Boys always talk about football at a wedding. My father tells a story about a wedding he went to on cup final day. All the men in front of the telly, missing the speeches.

      Suddenly I knew that I didn’t want to eat the food. I felt sick. I needed some air.

      Uncle George was on the bench. I sat down next to him.

      ‘Enjoying yourself?’

      ‘I’m feeling a bit sick.’

      ‘The car journey?’

      ‘Probably.’

      ‘Seen Victoria?’

      ‘Yeah. She looks great.’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘You proud?’

      ‘Yes. After everything.’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘It’s hard growing up.’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘These days.’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘You don’t do drugs, do you, Jo?’

      ‘No, nothing like that.’

      ‘I’m proud of you, Jo. Are you happy?’

      ‘Sometimes.’

      ‘That’s all you can expect. Sometimes. Don’t expect too much, that’s the secret Jo. Don’t expect too much of people.’

      ‘I won’t.’

      But I did.

      Women are meant to be better communicators, good with words, intuitive with the non-verbal stuff. But I prefer male speak. My mother uses too many words. So does Auntie Sue. Words to analyse, predict, accuse. Most of all, selfish words: look what this does to me, after everything I’ve done, what will people think about me? Me, me, me. You make me look good, you make me look bad.

      If I’m sick, it’s me who’s sick. No one else need throw up on my behalf.

      As my mother waved and called ‘Coo-ee,’ my stomach churned. My chest heaved. My throat went into spasm. I headed for the house. Walls make me feel safer than the open air. Or canvas.

      Later, I was sitting in the marquee feeling a little better. My mother skipped over, full of sympathy. Sympathy for herself because her daughter couldn’t perform any more—she had pulled a sickie.

      She said, ‘You must be a doctor when you grow up and you must eat this bread. Then I will tell you what else you must do.’ Or words to that effect.

      Anger hides round corners. If you listen carefully, you’ll hear it rumbling, swishing. Like lava surfacing. You feel your body tightening as it grips your muscles and tendons and seeps into your nervous system, and you become hot, steamy, rigid. You can’t keep it trapped inside, it will make its escape.

      I pushed the plate away with too much force. I spoke with too much aggression. Then I sat back and let my mother turn my anger into guilt.

      ‘Sorry, I was only trying to help, I forgot you weren’t feeling well. I thought you’d want to meet that medical student. It’s your life, but I’m here to support you, and it’s just that you need to gather all the information you can. Talk to people, ask questions, and something will come up and you’ll think, Yes, that’s for me. But there’s no hurry, just keep all your options open.’

      ‘I just feel like…I don’t know.’

      ‘Go on.’

      ‘I feel pushed. Kind of.’

      ‘Well, it’s you pushing yourself most of the time. No one else is pushing you in any way. You’re completely wrong about this, you have nothing to be angry about. I simply don’t want you to have any regrets, that’s all. Regret can niggle you for the rest of your life.’

      ‘Sorry.’

      ‘That’s all right. No harm done. Here you are, you can have my bread.’

      ‘Can I go and play outside?’ asked Eliza. She had scoffed down her food like eating’s an Olympic event or something.

      ‘I don’t suppose children have to stay for the speeches, Eliza. Off you go then. Jo and I will be here if you need us.’

      Ben walked past and winked at me. I smiled. Then I saw him wink at the girl in the pink chiffon dress.

      The wedding party was sitting in a line like they were waiting for a bus or something. Victoria and her husband kept looking at each other. Uncle George and Auntie Sue kept looking at each other. The in-laws kept looking at each other. People seem to come in pairs, like book ends. Or shoes. One by one, the men in the line stood up to speak. The audience joined in with romantic sighs, laughter, applause. I saw myself sitting up there in a white dress. My mum and dad beside me. Eliza one of a pair of identical bridesmaids. Everyone in pairs. Perfect.

      I miss being a complete family. Two parents. Two children. Two gerbils. I like everything neat and tidy. Life arranged to perfection.

      The speeches were over and Mum was chatting to some random man. Middle-aged men in suits all smell the same. She picked a piece of fluff off his shoulder. She smoothed down her skirt. She pushed a piece of hair behind her ear. She said it was a nice tent. She said the mother-in-law’s hat looked like a pancake. She threw back her head and laughed. He laughed too. She said, ‘You have to laugh.’

      I stood up and went over.

      ‘Ah, my daughter,