Parental Advisory - Part Two

Teas
are sipped and biscuits are nibbled. I quietly muse on my mother’s
ability to conjure a mortal slight from the thinnest of air. Then she
starts quietly humming to herself. I know that this is dangerous, a
pre-cursor. I decide it’s time to break the silence.

 

“Hey,
did you know I got this house for ten grand under the asking price?”

 

I
tell the story of my university professor and how I’d used our
personal connection to persuade him to accept a lower offer. Derek is
genuinely interested, and I’m beginning to enjoy myself, mimicking
and embellishing the professor’s Scottish accent, but my mother is
clearly uninterested and continues humming and rummaging in her bag.
Then she interrupts:

 

“She’s
taking a long time. What’s she doing?”

 

“Who?
Caitlin? You know what she’s doing Mum, she’s changing Angus.”

 

“How
long does it take to change him? It doesn’t take that long to
change a baby. It never took me that long to change you. What’s she
playing at?”

 

“He
was hungry. She’s feeding him as well.”

 

“Huh.
Feeding him? She’s still taking a long time.”

 

I
can hear Caitlin coming down the stairs.

 

“Here,
she’s coming now.”

 

Caitlin
walks into the room and moves towards the remaining empty armchair.

 

“Everybody
OK? Anyone want anything?”

 

Before
she’s had chance to sit down my mother speaks again:

 

“Where’s
Angus?”

 

“Oh
he was tired after his feed so I put him down for a little sleep.”

 

“A
sleep? He didn’t look tired to me.” She paused. “They say you
can give them too much sleep during the day. You want to be careful.
He won’t sleep tonight.”

 

“Yeah,
well. I’ll go up and check on him in a bit, if he’s not asleep
I’ll bring him down again.”

 

“You
should. Wake him up. You don’t want him sleeping all day then
keeping you up all night. Haven’t you both got work tomorrow?”

 

“Steve
has. I haven’t. I’m still on maternity.”

 

“Oh!
Maternity!” She looks at Derek. “They get maternity now. I never
got no maternity. When I had our Steven I was back at work in the
factory a week later. You just got on with it in those days. God,
they don’t know they’re born.” She looks back at Caitlin.
“Maternity. That’s nice. Maternity. How long do you get off then?
And do you get your full money? It’s alright that isn’t it! All
that money for doing nothing.”

 

Caitlin
hesitates, so I chime in:

 

“Well
it’s not exactly for doing nothing Mum, is it? She’s got Angus to
look after.”

 

My
mother glares at me.

 

“Oh
she does does she? ‘She’s got Angus to look after.’ “ She’s
mimicking me. “Well she’d better make a good job of it then
hadn’t she. Anyway, it is what it is I suppose.” She looks across
the settee at Derek. Then in a louder voice, changing the subject:

 

“I
suppose you’d better give them that thing then.”

 

Derek
looks at my Mother, confusion for a moment, then realisation.

 

“Oh
yes, of course.” He feels around in his trouser pocket. “Here you
are Steven. It’s a little something for Angus.”

 

He
reaches across to me and I take a piece of paper from his
outstretched hand. It’s a cheque for £1,000. It’s made out to me
but it’s got “FOR ANGUS” written across the top in bold capital
letters. There’s an awkward silence. I’m not sure what to say,
how to react. I am grateful, I truly am, but I feel uneasy. Clearly I
must accept it, I have no option, but equally clearly I will then be
in their debt. What will be expected of me in return?

 

“Wow!”

 

I
lean across and show Caitlin.

 

“Look!
It’s a cheque for £1,000! For Angus! Isn’t that generous!”

 

I
can tell that Caitlin feels like me, uncomfortable and apprehensive,
but she tries to show her appreciation.

 

“Oh
my God! Thank you! Both of you! Thank you so much! That’s so nice!”

 

“Yes,”
I add. “That’s so kind! He’s a lucky boy, lucky to have
grandparents like you. I suppose I’d better open a bank account for
him. I’ve been meaning to open one for him anyway. Can you actually
open bank accounts for babies?”

 

Nobody
answers so I continue.

 

“Thanks
again, that’s great.”

 

“Yes,”
says Caitlin, “Really generous. Too generous. Thank you.”

 

Mother
starts to speak before Caitlin has finished her sentence. She’s
looking at the fireplace.

 

“Do
you like living here then?”

 

I
glance at Caitlin before replying.

 

“Yes
I do, we both do. It’s a really nice house, we both love it, and
it’s a really nice neighbourhood, handy for the pubs and shops.”

 

“Round
here’s not bad I suppose, but how about the rest of it?”

 

“We
like it. It gets a bad press but it’s unfairly maligned. The
accent’s appalling of course but the people are friendly and the
council tries really hard. We’ve got Formula One or something
coming next year and the Tour De France is going to come through.”

 

“Yeah,
well, that’s nice. That’s all well and good. But there’s a lot
of foreigners aren’t there?”

 

“Foreigners?
What do you mean?”

 

“Don’t
pretend you don’t know what I mean. You know what I mean!
Foreigners! All them Coloureds and Darkies! When we were coming
through the city centre we hardly saw a white face. I said to Derek
when we were driving through ‘It’s like the United Nations here’.
Didn’t I Derek?”

 

I
suppress the urge to laugh out loud. Or cry out loud. One or the
other. I have a feeling I know where this is going.

 

“Mum,
just because someone is black or brown doesn’t mean they’re a
foreigner. Most of the people you saw would have been born here.
They’re as British as you and me.”

 

“British
as you and me? Don’t be so bloody daft. How can they be British as
you and me? Half of that lot have just got off the banana boat.
Christ, I’ve never heard anything so bloody stupid. British as you
and me.”

 

“Mum….”

 

“And
the other half’s all them Paki’s just flown in from Pakistan or
wherever. They’re only here so they can claim benefits and get
their free treatment on the NHS. None of them work. You let one in
and ten minutes later they’re bringing all their family in and
their cousins and their aunties. There’s fifteen of them living in
a two-bed terrace. We see them when we’re driving through Bradford,
walking along, all in a line, we see them, men walking in front, they
make their women walk five yards behind, all in them black things
covering their faces, you can’t see their faces, I don’t know how
they can see where they’re going.”

 

“Mum,
half the doctors in the NHS are Indian or Pakistani, and the
Afro-Caribbeans are here because the government invited them here to
help re-build the country after the….”

 

“Hey
Derek, have you got that poem? Show them that poem.” She turns back
to me and Caitlin. “You’ll like this, it’s really funny. It’s
hysterical.” She giggles to herself.

 

OK.
Poem. So now I don’t know where this is going. Derek looks
nonplussed.

 

“I
haven’t got it. I thought you had it.”

 

“Oh,
I thought you had it. Maybe I’ve got it.” She picks up her bag
and roots around. “It might be in here.” She pulls out a greasy
piece of folded paper. “Here it is.” She unfolds a tattered
photocopy. “It’s really good this.” She raises the paper as if
to start reading, then pauses. “Just a minute, I need my glasses.”
She fumbles in her bag again. She finds her glasses and begins to
speak.

 

“I
come for visit, get treated regal
So
I stay, who care if I
illegal.

Cross
the border poor and broke
Take a lorry see custom bloke.”

 

Her
reading is stilted. She’s not used to reading aloud. She’s not
even that comfortable with reading. She’s already stumbling over
words and pausing in inappropriate places. She’s
trying to make the poem scan, but she can’t because it’s
badly written and it
doesn’t. She’s speaking in a cliched Pakistani
or Indian accent, they’re both the same to her. She’s hoping to
make the protagonist sound greedy and ignorant.

 

“Nice
man treat me good in there,

Say
I need to see welfare.

Welfare
say ‘Come down no more,

We
send cash right to your door.’ “

 

As
she reads she keeps glancing up, mainly at me but also at Caitlin,
warily assessing our reaction.

“Welfare
cheque, they make you wealthy
National Health they keep you
healthy.
By and by I got plenty money
Thank you English
working dummy.”

This
is bad. I don’t know how to react. She’s just given me a large
cheque. And she’s my mother for God’s sake, I don’t want a
confrontation. And I know that if I attempt to remonstrate the
consequences could be far worse than any discomfort I’m currently
feeling. I don’t know what to do. She glances up again. To my shame
I contrive an unconvincing laugh. She continues.

 

“Write
to friends in motherland
Tell
them to come as fast as they can.
They
come in planes and great big trucks
I
buy big house with Social bucks
They
all come we live together
To
live off England and make life better.”

 

I
feel I have to say something. I’m not sure what I’m going to say
but nevertheless I interrupt.

 

“Mum…”

 

“Hang
on a minute, listen to the next bit, it’s funny.”

 

She
ploughs on. It isn’t
funny of course, it’s
excrutiating, even though she tries to make it appear funny by using a light-hearted tone and laughing as
she speaks.
Eventually
and to my huge relief she reads out the final lines.

 

“Kids
need dentist, wife needs pills
National
Health pay, we got no bills.

We
think England damn good place
Much too good for White man race.

If
they not like us, they can go,
There's
lots of room Pakistan you know.”

 

She
finishes and looks directly at me. It’s a challenge. She knows it
is and I know it is.

 

“It’s
funny that isn’t it? Hysterical. Didn’t you think so.”

 

I
have to choose my words carefully.

 

“Well
I didn’t think it was funny exactly. It didn’t really make me
laugh much.”

 

“Why
not? Course it’s funny. It’s what they do isn’t it, those
Pakis.” She’s working herself up now. She’s talking louder and
faster, and there’s a hard, vicious edge to her voice. “It’s
what they do. They come over, they don’t get jobs, they just claim
benefits and get their free healthcare, and they think ‘Oooh! This
is alright.” Better than them bloody slums they were living in in
Pakistan. So they tell all their mates, “Oooh, come over here! It’s
fantastic. They give you a house, you don’t have to work, if you
get poorly you just go to hospital. And it’s all free!” Then they
all come over. They must think they’re in bloody heaven.”

 

“Well
fine if that’s what you think, you’re entitled to your point of
view, but don’t try and disguise it by trying to make it out to be
funny. It’s not. And I thought you liked that Dr Khan anyway?”

 

“Well
I do, he’s alright, but he’s different, he’s a doctor. I’m
not talking about him. He’s an exception. It’s all them others.
What are you defending them for anyway? They’re not bothered about
you. All their bothered about is that you work hard and pay your
taxes so they can sit around all day in the lap of luxury. And they
all stink. God, have you been past their houses? The stink of curry.
It makes you want to throw up, it’s disgusting.”

 

“Mum,
I’m not defending layabouts and benefit scroungers. I’m just
saying not all immigrants are scroungers, a lot of them work very
hard. That’s why they come here, to work hard and make a life for
themselves. And there’s plenty of white scroungers as well you
know, it’s not just immigrants. Haven’t you seen that “Benefits
Street” on the TV? So as well as not being funny, your poem’s
just … racist.”

 

“Racist?
Oh my God, here we go. Racist! You’re not allowed to say anything
there days are you? You can’t say what you think without somebody
looking down their nose and calling you racist. We’re British!
They’re not, they’re all bloody wogs and Pakis. We used to rule
all that bloody lot. We don’t want them here, scrounging off us.
Send them all bloody home, get shut of them, we don’t want them
here.”

 

I
don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know
how I can move this situation forward. Fortunately for me, after a
brief silence my mother decides for me.

 

“Come
on Derek, it’ll be getting dark. We’d better be getting off.”

 

The
departure is swift and perfunctory with cursory hugs and indifferent
goodbyes. We follow them out to their car. With the engine started
and about to move off, mother lowers her window.

 

“You
wanna be careful none of them move in next door. That’ll bring the
price of your house down.”

 

Once
they’re out of sight I turn to Caitlin.

 

“Thank
God for that. Let’s go get a drink.”

 

Once
inside, settled in my armchair with a glass of red, I begin to mull
over the events of the afternoon and in due course my thoughts turn
to the thousand pounds. I know it’s for Angus, but I ponder if
there’s any way I could justify putting it towards the cost of
demolishing the bomb shelter. But no, fuck no, that bomb shelter’s
staying. Everybody needs a bomb shelter in their life.