Disconnected

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I saw you bridle and shoot me an odd kind of look – as if you were worried and scared of me, both.

“Chill? What kind of English is that? Are you hot or something? Honestly, it’s as bad as that silly expression ‘cool’, which I never liked. And Catherine, you can’t – as you so elegantly put it – chill. You are taking four A-levels. Four demanding A-levels.”

I said nothing. That way I could stay in control. You paused, sizing up the situation.

“You’ll feel different after dinner, I daresay.”

You went over to the drinks cabinet and poured yourself a gin and tonic. Gordon’s gin, and Schweppes Slimline Tonic. You drank every evening and because it was so regular it seemed normal and acceptable to me.

“Can I have one?” I asked you. You swung round, looking guilty and alarmed.

“Don’t be silly. You don’t have to copy my bad habits.” The joke was meant to defuse the situation.

I refused to smile. I was as taut as a bow, watching you, as if I was seeing you for the first time. You didn’t care much about your appearance, you never did. You always laughed when I put on some make-up as if it was a childish, or worse, a rather common thing to do. Your hair was short but almost deliberately dishevelled – clever women didn’t have time to fuss with their hair. That day I remember you wore a grey skirt and a black sweater that screamed Marks & Spencer. You thought you looked classic, timeless, but I could see the little lines that radiated from your lips like cracks on an old oil painting. I observed the tiredness in your eyes. I felt sorry for you and glad I was young. But at the same time, or following on from that, I felt angry at you because you were my mother, which was just so claustrophobic. I didn’t know how to judge myself without using your eyes, your tired, ageing eyes.

When I’m with my friends, I never talk about you. We don’t talk about our parents unless they’re being a pain. It’s good to escape. But then I come home and it’s like living in your shadow – and that’s good, because in some ways you make me feel safe, but in other ways, I want to scream. Is that normal? You’re the doctor. You should know. And I hate it that I think you know everything about me. You never worried when I was ill, and you tell me, all the time, that I’m just going through a developmental stage.

But I don’t want to be like you because your life is so drab and monochrome and hard and you’re so tired all the time. Like me. I’m tired all the time too.

I thought, I just can’t be arsed to move. Not that I’d ever say that to you.

We had dinner that evening at the breakfast bar in the kitchen. We just small-talked – well, you did, going on about the bank statement and redecorating the porch and hallway, and whingeing about your paperwork. I refused dessert. You said you wished you had my willpower. Then you said, “Are you going up to your room to work now?” It was a challenge.

“I might,” I said.

Two pugilists, eyeing each other from their respective corners.

“And there’s your oboe.”

I hated my oboe just then. She had pulled it over to her side.

“Because, Catherine, I know it’s hard sometimes to get motivated but the secret of academic success is persistence and determination. It’s always the student who keeps going who gets there in the end. I’m only telling you this for your own good. Really, it’s nothing to me whether you work or not.”

I was silent.

“Well?” she asked.

I took refuge in ambiguity. I got up, said nothing, and went up to my room.

It was a relief to be alone. I love you, but sometimes there’s too much of you. Once in my room, I threw myself on the bed, wondering what was wrong with me that night. I worked out I wasn’t pre-menstrual, but I didn’t believe in that crap anyway. Girls I knew just said they were pre-menstrual so they could have an excuse for having a go at people, or a big cry and all their mates would cuddle them. I didn’t feel like crying but just like things were out of joint. Worse, as if nothing mattered any more. The idea of not doing any work was so appealing. Like, what was the point?

But automatically I opened my schoolbag and took out my History text books and file, the document question he’d given us and an A4 pad of paper, and got myself organised. For a moment or two I actually felt like working. I like the look of a piece of blank paper. But as soon as I wrote my name, that same lethargy descended. It was such an effort to write. I tried to read the documents but they made no sense. I glanced at the first question – Explain briefly the following references: (a) ‘patrons and nominees’ (b) ‘the absurd admiration of the triumph of physical strength in France’.

I felt paralysed by the weight of the words. A sensible voice in my head (yours?) said, come on, now! It’s only a short question. You can do it. Another voice said, what has this got to do with you, or with anything for that matter? It’s all a silly game, taking exams, getting qualifications. It doesn’t matter, any of it.

Only, if it doesn’t matter, what does? That was what scared me. So I tried again. I began a sentence of my own on the paper in response, but then was distracted by the reflection of me in my dressing-table mirror.

Girl at work. Or girl not at work. My brown hair was dishevelled since I’d taken out my hair bobble. The expression on my face was blank. I automatically asked the mirror the question I always did – am I good-looking? This time the reply came back – what does it matter? In reality I suppose my face changes depending on my mood. When I smile I look quite pretty – my eyes are large, which helps. But at other times my face is heavy and formless.

So I got up to put some music on to help me start work. You have this rule, I know, that I’m only allowed classical music to work to – you read somewhere it aids concentration. Today I decided to go against you because I wanted to listen to a tape Greg, a boy in my Economics group, had lent me – The Smiths. From the Eighties. But they weren’t like what I thought of as Eighties at all, but camp and suicidal all at once. They were good. I lay on my bed and listened and thought, I could get into this. A shame I didn’t like Greg that much, at least not in that way.

Then I decided to give myself a manicure. It can be quite therapeutic, doing things with your nails, or plucking your eyebrows, self-grooming. And I needed to get myself looking good for Brad’s party on Saturday. I was half-listening for you because I didn’t want to be discovered not working. But who was I kidding? I felt as guilty as hell. The more I put off working, the more I felt squeezed by some sort of invisible pressure. I couldn’t breathe. But I couldn’t work either. I thought about rejigging my work schedule and doing double tomorrow. That seemed like a good idea. Or I could wake at six in the morning and work then.

I heard you shouting up at me.

“Catherine? Are you busy?”

“Yes,” I replied. “Very.”

“OK,” you said.

I got my headphones out of my cupboard and put them on and carried on listening to The Smiths.