Apple Pie Mum

Clare struck the heavy painted knocker and regretted the mute black and white plastic bell which unfailingly irked her; it sullied the door and besmirched its two-up two-down Victorian heritage. Was mother in? She might be abed listening to right-winged zealots on the radio and wouldn’t hear the knocker. Clare had a key but the thought of meeting mother unawares made her anxious. She shifted from one foot to the other; what she wanted was for the door to fling open and mother to wipe flour-covered hands on a familiar apron and beam upon her with plump, rapturous, rosy cheeks.

Like the figurine she had given her years ago on Mothers’ Day; a stout redoubtable little matron of a woman with sensible green shoes, feet akimbo, restrained brown curls, white pinny – an apple pie mum, mother had remarked and then looked accusingly at Clare, ‘I don’t look like an apple pie mum do I’? she had pleaded. Clare had hurried to reassure mother but her suspicion of the apple pie mum had depressed Clare. She wanted an apple pie mum, capable, dependable, jolly, worthy; not a mother who forgot when Clare had invited a friend to visit and served only a sup of tea and a slice of toast or a mother who talked tirelessly about the burning of Protestants in Smithfields during the reign of Bloody Mary... .

A blue distorted outline of her old dressing gown appeared dimly, becoming clearer as mother emerged from the foot of the stairs and reached the front door. She had been in bed. She peered around the barely opened door at Clare and pinched her gown around her throat. She would have been handsome if only she would cut her hair! The house was cold; mother didn’t heat it, relied on her electric blanket. Clare followed her as she shuffled down the small narrow hallway into the back room where her old round pine table and chairs sat conveniently huddled for the small kitchen, an appendage to the parlour.

Clare loved this little house, loved its wide Victorian sash windows, wooden floor boards, tiled hearths, crooked rooms and steep, narrow staircase. When her daughter, May, had to do a project on a Victorian building she had chosen her grandmother’s house and Clare had helped her garner information at the local library. The first occupants at the turn of the century had been a family of four and a lodger. A family of four occupying this little dolls’ house was shocking but a full grown lodger had been too much. Where had they put the meek, flat-capped, round-shouldered toiler? In the diminutive front parlour? That left two bedrooms, the small back parlour and the kitchen, although it would hardly have been the kitchen it was today, with its fitted oak cupboards and running water; mother said the scullery would have had only a sink called a jaw box and how many of May’s friends’ grandmothers knew that, she had asked.

Clare watched those erstwhile occupants whenever she visited the tiny house, in the back parlour around the hissing fire place, dad picking his pipe, mum fussing with the chops, the children, she couldn’t fix them - they flitted, as the lodger’s head appeared round the door in search of his supper.

Mother sat at the pine table, absentmindedly picked up a nail file, and began stroking her nails (always one direction or you’ll split them). Clare mourned the mother who bustled, bustled to the kitchen in a flurry of pleasure at her daughter’s arrival, ready with a hot cosy stoked tea pot and a tempting array of nourishing home-made morsels which Clare fends off, really mother I’m fine I’ve had lunch no I really don’t need...

‘Where’ve you been’? asked mother, keeping her eyes on her nails. Her mouth pulled taut by the invisible string of habit.

‘I’ve been to London, shopping. Shall I put the kettle on?’

Mother looked startled,

‘Oh, you’re wanting a cup of tea...’? her mouth hung open, questioning, her eyes darted.

‘I’ll put it on’, said Clare.

She moved into the little kitchen which led off from the parlour at right angles, separated only by one down step and a beaded curtain – just like an Egyptian stew shop mused mother.

‘D’you have any biscuits mother?’

‘There’s some crumpets in that tin on the counter there. Toast a couple of those for us, there’s jam in the fridge.’

‘Ooh lovely, crumpets.’

This set the bustling mother flitting across her vision as she swung around, spied the old round biscuit tin and prised the warped lid as careful as possible so as not to dislodge any of the orange rust which congregated in a thin circumference around the edge. Two packets of finger crumpets sprang free, one packet already open, the cellophane split in a jagged rent. She lifted one of the fingers and stared aghast, atop rose little silver green sprouts of furry mould, each a small miracle.

‘Mother these crumpets have mould all over them!’

Mother shifted in her chair and, securing the belt on her dressing gown, joined the crumpets. The string tugged tighter at her mouth and Clare felt a jab of revulsion as if she had seen into mother’s soul. The latter peered down at the crumpet, sighed, tutted,

‘Just scrap it off,’ she admonished, sweeping a stray strand of her long greying hair off her face. She pulled the sweaty sponge of crumpet from Clare’s hands in an impatient tug and sighed again.

‘I’m not eating that’, protested Clare.

‘Oh for goodness sake. Open the other packet then.’

Clare scrutinised the second, unopened packet and through the cellophane she could clearly see the unmistakable despoiling spots of green. She scanned the packet in search of a sell-by date.

‘Mother, these crumpets are two weeks out of date.’

Mother sighed, heavier, more threat this time. She pulled the packet away from Clare’s outraged eyes.

‘Give them to me...for goodness sake...I just scrape it off. There’s nothing wrong with them.’

Clare refused to be mollified. Not for the first time, she found herself wondering what she had unwittingly been fed as a child.

‘Have you any biscuits’?

Mother threw the second packet of crumpets into the bin, her little wizened back chafing with fury.

‘No. The crumpets were all I had.’

She shuffled back to her chair by the radiator, picked up the emery board, pushed her hand out in front of her face, the better to study it, tilted her head to the side and resumed her filing.

Clare searched around for a teapot.

‘Where’ve you been? Shopping?’ rejoined mother.

‘London. Presents for teachers’.

‘What did you get? Anything nice?’ Her eyes narrowed, she lifted her chin and scrutinised Clare’s bags.

‘Hand cream,’ replied Clare as she peered cautiously into the depths of an old brown teapot which clearly hadn’t been used for a while.

‘I try to avoid chocolate. Most of the kids give chocolate. But all women appreciate hand cream, don’t they?’

She replaced the lid on the teapot. It would have to be a tea bag in a mug. She didn’t feel like unearthing more mould in the dark recesses of the teapot. As she inspected the mugs for traces of dried washing-up liquid – one of mother’s specialities and a particular bugbear of Albert who routinely scalded mother’s mugs in boiling water before using – mother called back,

‘Aye. Let’s face it. You only give chocolates to people you loathe.’

Clare paused and frowned.

‘What’s that?’ she asked as she entered with the two mugs, each with a bloated foaming tea bag bobbing in the steaming water.

‘What do you mean mother? Only give chocolates to people you loathe?’

‘Well,’ considered mother; she halted her filing and studied the table.

She picked up a spiral bound notebook and pushed it across the table to Clare in a slow deliberate expanse, lips pursed, saying:

‘When a woman gives another woman chocolates, what she’s really saying is: “I want you to get... fat”.’

The last word mother enunciated carefully and her hand lingered on the book emphasising the verity of the statement.

Clare paused, considered, and giggled. Really mother had an uncanny knack of hitting the nail on the head! For certain, an apple pie mum would never conceive of such an idea. Inside Clare a stirring of admiration and pride caused her to sit brighter. She reached in her bag to show mother the hand creams.