Everything to Gain

‘You’ve always known it,’ I retorted, unable to keep the acerbity out of my voice.

She ignored this. ‘Why don’t I go into the kitchen and start on the potato salad?’

‘Oh, but Diana’s going to make that.’

‘Good heavens, Mallory, what does an Englishwoman know about making an all-American potato salad for an all-American celebration like Independence Day? Independence from the British, I might add.’

‘You don’t have to give me a history lesson.’

‘I’ll make the salad,’ my mother sniffed, ‘it’s one of my specialties, in case you’ve forgotten.’

‘Fine,’ I answered swiftly, giving in, anxious to promote a peaceful atmosphere.

My mother began to move in the direction of the kitchen, obviously anxious to start preparing the famous potato salad.

I said, ‘I’ll take your bag up to the blue guest room; you can use it for the day.’

‘Thank you,’ she replied, walking on, not looking back.

I stared after her slim, elegant figure, wondering how my father had resisted the temptation to strangle her, and then I hoisted the bag, and, still holding Trixy, I ran upstairs to the blue room. I came back down immediately, still carrying the puppy, but in the hall outside my little office I kissed the top of her fluffy white head and put her down.

‘Come on, Trixola,’ I muttered, ‘let’s go and attack her, shall we?’

Trixy looked up at me and wagged her tail, and, as I so often am, I was quite convinced she understood exactly what I’d just said. I laughed out loud. Trixy was such a gay little animal, she always brought a smile to my face.

As I hurried towards the kitchen, with the dog trotting behind me, I was more determined than ever not to let my mother ruin my day. I wondered if she purposely wanted to upset me, or whether she was merely in a bad mood and taking it out on me. I wasn’t sure. But then that was an old story when it came to my mother and me. I never really knew where I stood with her.

I found her positioned at one of the counter tops, slicing the chilled boiled potatoes I had made earlier. She had a cup of coffee next to her and a cigarette dangled from her mouth. It took a lot of self-restraint on my part not to admonish her; I hated her to smoke around us, and most especially when she was working in the kitchen.

‘Where are the children and Andrew?’ she asked without looking at me.

‘They’ve gone to the local vegetable stand, to buy fresh produce for the barbecue. Corn, tomatoes, the usual. Mother, do you mind not smoking when you’re preparing food.’

‘I’m not dropping cigarette ash in the salad, if that’s what you’re getting at,’ she answered, still sounding peevish.

Once again, I endeavoured to placate her. ‘I know you’re not. I just hate the smoke, Mom. Please put it out. If not for your own health or mine, at least for your grandchildren’s sake. You know what they’re saying about second-hand smoke.’

‘Lissa and Jamie live in Manhattan. Think of all the polluted air they’re breathing in there.’

‘Only too true, Mother,’ I snapped. ‘But let’s not add to the problem of air pollution out here, shall we?’ I knew my voice had hardened but I couldn’t help myself. I was furious with her, angered that she was taking such a cavalier attitude, and in my house.

My mother swung her beautifully-coiffed blonde head and stared at me over her shoulder.

There was no doubt in my mind that she recognized the unyielding expression which had swept over my face. Certainly she had seen it enough times over the years, and now it had the desired effect. She stubbed the cigarette in the sink, took the butt and threw it into the garbage pail. After gulping down the last of her coffee, she carried the bowls of potatoes over to the kitchen table and sat down. All of this was done in a blistering silence.

After a moment or two, she said slowly, in the most dulcet of tones, which startled me, ‘Now, Mallory darling, don’t be difficult this morning. You know how I hate to quarrel with you. So upsetting.’ She proffered me the sweetest of smiles.

I was flabbergasted. I opened my mouth then snapped it shut instantly. She was the most exasperating woman I had ever met, and once again I felt that old, familiar rush of sympathy for my father.

In her own insidious and very clever way, she had somehow managed to twist everything, had made it sound as if I had been the one itching for a fight. But experience had taught me there was nothing to be gained in taking issue with her, or trying to present my point of view. Silence or acquiescence were the only viable weapons to use to defeat her.

I walked over to the refrigerator and brought out the other ingredients for the potato salad, all of which I had made at six o’clock this morning, long before her arrival. There were glass bowls of hard-boiled eggs, chopped celery, chopped cornichons and chopped onions, and these I placed on a large wooden tray, along with the salt and pepper mills and a jar of mayonnaise.

Carrying the laden tray over to the old-fashioned kitchen table, I placed it in the middle, went and got another chopping board and knife before taking the chair opposite her. I began methodically to chop an egg, avoiding her eyes. I was seething inside.

We worked in silence for a while, and then my mother stopped slicing a large potato, put the knife down and leaned back in her chair. She sat gazing at me, studying me carefully.

So intense was her stare, so acute her scrutiny, I found myself reacting almost angrily; she always had that effect on me when she put me under a microscope and dissected me like a bug.

I frowned. ‘What is it, Mother?’ I demanded coldly. ‘Do I have dirt on my face or something?’

She shook her head, exclaimed, ‘No, no, you don’t.’ There was a little pause, then she went on, ‘I’m sorry, Mal, I was staring at you far too hard. I was examining your skin, actually, gauging the elasticity of it.’ She nodded quite vigorously, as if confirming something important to herself. ‘Dr Malvern is right. Young skin does have a special kind of elasticity to it, a different kind of texture from older skin. Mmmm. Well, never mind. I can’t get the elasticity back, I’m afraid, but I can get rid of the sag.’ As she spoke she began to pat herself under her chin with the back of her hand. ‘Dr Malvern says a nip and a tuck will do it.’

‘Mother! For God’s sake! You don’t need another face job. Honestly you don’t. You look wonderful.’ I truly meant this. She was still a lovely-looking woman who defied her age. The face-lift she had had three years ago had helped, of course. But she was naturally well preserved. No one would have guessed that this slender, long-legged beauty with the pellucid hazel eyes, high cheekbones and the most perfect complexion, a wrinkleless complexion in fact, was actually a woman approaching her sixty-second birthday. She appeared to be much younger, easily fifteen or sixteen years younger, in my opinion. One of the few things I admired about my mother was her youthfulness and the discipline she exercised in order to achieve it.

‘Thank you, Mal, for those kind words, but I do think I could use just a little tuck …’ Her voice trailed off, and, continuing to stare at me, she let out several small sighs. There was an unfamiliar wistfulness about her at this moment, and it took me by surprise.

‘No, you don’t need it,’ I murmured in a gentler voice, a rush of love for her filling me. She suddenly seemed so open and vulnerable I felt a rare touch of sympathy for her.

Another silence fell between us as we continued to observe each other; but we were really caught up in our own thoughts, and drifted with them for a while.

I was thinking of her, thinking that vain and foolish though she might be, she was not a bad person. Quite the contrary, in fact. Intrinsically, my mother was a good woman and she had done her level best to be a good mother. There were times when she had been hopeless at this, others more successful. Admittedly, she had instilled in me a number of excellent values which were important to me. On the other hand, we rarely agreed about anything, and frequently she misread me, misjudged me, and treated me as if I were a witless dreamer.

It was my mother who finally broke the silence. She said in an unusually low voice for her, ‘There’s something else I want to tell you, Mal.’

I nodded, gave her my full attention.

She hesitated fractionally.

‘Go on then,’ I muttered.

‘I’m going to get married,’ she told me, finally.

‘Married. But you are married. To my father. It might be in name only, but you’re still legally tied to him.’

‘I know that. I mean, after I get a divorce.’

‘Who are you going to marry?’ I asked, leaning forward, staring at her questioningly, riddled with curiosity.

‘David Nelson.’

‘Oh.’

‘You don’t sound very thrilled.’

‘Don’t be silly … I’m just taken aback, that’s all.’

‘Don’t you like David?’