Open Writing

As a deluge of rain from the porch roof threatened the solitary life of my husband’s coveted and evergreen tomato, I sighed contentedly from the kitchen window. What a beautiful day!

The children had stopped being sick, no one with the exception of a one-eyed doll needed new shoes, the dog was not in love and I would shortly be the owner of a new hairstyle. What more could anyone wish for?

There were a few minor problems, of course. Although our college student has had various offers of ‘settees’ and ‘floors’ she is still virtually homeless – but nothing that could not be swept under the table with the rest of our ‘undesirables.’

Dripping with tranquillity I felt almost happy enough to start darning socks again. With a few motherly instructions to daughter on how to throw jeans in the washer, I whistled off to a new hairstyle. Yes, this is the way to bring up children – give them independence.

I could imagine the hairdresser’s waiting scissors drawn, fighting for the right to stunt my growth. A friend once said a hairdresser was wildly excited when she went for a trim. ‘I love to get a really bad head of hair,’ she confided – mine would obviously be greeted with rapture.

My first feeling of disquiet arose when the receptionist inquired without looking up from her cuticles, ‘Trim?’ Professionals can cut conversations down to the rude essentials. When I mentioned the complete overhaul ordered by phone she looked at my hair and quickly understood. Everyone watched through the mirror while I played ‘find the coat-peg’ and eventually found it concealed in a corner.

After struggling three times to hang my coat on the collapsible hook, I picked it up off the floor and nonchalantly placed it on the back of the chair I was offered.

The girl in dark glasses nodded sympathetically when I described the way I wanted to look. ‘I know my hair would never look like that,’ I lied. The smile left my face when she agreed. With my old hairstyle lying in a circle around my chair I felt like a rabbit we used to have. She used to pull her fur off and sit in the middle of it, because she wanted a family.

My family had driven me to it. An hour later shivering at the bus stop with white face, blue nose and naked scarlet ears glowing patriotically, I wondered if this transformation would leave the rest of the family as cold as me.

Opening the kitchen door I entered the next disquieting phase. Instead of swooning at the devastating change, my daughter never even looked up from the kitchen table. What could possibly be more interesting than my new hairstyle? On closer observation I could see she was carefully laying out the sacred remains of the weekly wash. Immaculately clean, soggy and tatty pieces of fivers and one pound notes were spread out on the table.

‘They were floating on top of the water when I took Howard’s jeans out,’ she explained, ignoring my hairstyle.

With nervous fingers we created two mosaic fivers and one mosaic pound note, and still had enough bits left over to make half of something else.

‘Take them to the bank,’ our neighbour suggested, wiping the laughter from her eye corner. Usually jobs like this are reserved for the boss, but cowardice has to be swallowed in emergency.

We decided to make a clean sweep and face the bank clerk together. If we could persuade him to ‘give us the money’ I may yet live to see my hairdo admired.

Post offices and banks always make me feel deaf. The bank clerk and I find it easier to communicate by sign language. It cuts out all the ‘Ehs,’ and ‘Pardons,’ which used to accompany the cashing of my weekly cheque. He usually stamps it, raises a hand and in his Indian chief voice says ‘How,’ then I point to the fivers.

When I presented him with the assortment of wet paper his responding ‘How?’ sounded strangely emotional. Watched closely by a small queue I gave him instructions on how to devalue the pound. He wrote it all down, then came the difficult part – could anyone vouch for me? I looked down the queue, a cigar-smoking refuse collector winked at me. I decided my neighbour’s name would suffice.

Trying desperately not to smile, we watched him transfer the stubbornly adhesive pieces from his finger ends into the three plastic bags. Then we tried not to cry when he informed us these would now be sent to the Bank of England and they would decide what to make of them.

But this day was not over yet; how to tell number one son? I was still smarting from his unsympathetic outburst the time I washed and ironed his jeans without noticing the bulging wallet in his back pocket.

Perhaps now would be a suitable time to visit my sister in Australia.

Could we make a joke of it? ‘Ha, ha,’ you’ll never guess what we’ve found floating on top of the washer today?’ Or would a philosophical approach be more agreeable. ‘Well lad, money in the bank at last (I hope). One day you will thank me for this.’

He ate his special banquet tea without comment then sank into his favourite position on the hearth rug, blissfully unaware that his future happiness was in a hundred pieces inside a polythene bag on its way to the Bank of England. When I threw him what I hoped was a motherly smile, he scornfully poked his big toe through the hole in his sock.

When would be the best time to tell him, I pondered, as I plucked a piece of pound note from the vest I was ironing. ‘Did you pay that £16 in?’ Father inquires.

£16? Did he say £16?

‘Where’s the dog?’

‘Mum my shoe sole is hanging off.’ Son suddenly looks at my hair. ‘What have you been doing – you look different?’

The end of a beautiful day. So what if I am not God’s gift to children. The dog loves me, doesn’t he? And what about my new hairstyle?