Lizzie Vogel 1 - Man at the Helm

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As luck would have it, just a day or two after we’d compiled the Man List and made our solemn pledge, our mother made an appointment to see Dr Kaufmann, the village doctor, who was already on the list. My sister and I thought we might as well make a start with him and it gave us both butterflies thinking about it. We knew doctors were a sought-after group, man-wise.

The plan was: after our mother’s consultation with Dr Kaufmann, my sister would follow up with a short letter to him on the peach-blossom writing paper (which was quite sensual in appearance with pink peaches in the top right-hand corner), inviting him for an evening drink. As it turned out, I accompanied our mother to the doctor so she could show him my clickety shoulder, and it was a good job too because I knew straight away that Dr Kaufmann wouldn’t dream of having sex with our mother. He wasn’t the type to exploit the abandoned or fragile – however pretty. I could tell this by the way he spoke to us and the way he regarded us, a mix of seriousness, compassion and concern – I’d never seen that type of look before, or many times since. In fact, it was my opinion that an advance on Dr Kaufmann might be counter-productive (i.e., he might see it as a sign of her unsuitability, thereby bringing us closer to being made wards of court). Actually Dr Kaufmann seemed to have the same set of practical worries as my sister and he gave her a pep talk right there and then, in front of me.

‘Mrs Vogel,’ he said, ‘you are the captain of your ship – you have people depending on you. People whom you must care for and be seen to care for.’ He nodded at her encouragingly and went on. ‘You must look after the children and you must pay your rates on time. It is imperative that you do these important things and you must try to –’

Our mother butted in there and said, ‘Yes, all right, I’ll try,’ before Dr Kaufmann had even finished listing the things that were imperative. He paused, then continued doggedly with his list.

‘You must prepare the children for school and you must keep your doors and gates closed. This is a village after all, Mrs Vogel, not a town, people notice things. You must eat well yourself, too – you’re clearly underweight,’ he said. ‘It is imperative.’

He may as well have said, ‘Or the children will be made wards of court, Mrs Vogel.’

He may as well have, because that’s how I interpreted it.

Certain things were imperative. And hearing it all from the doctor made me commit 100 per cent to the quest for our mother’s happiness. Because to be honest, even though I’d already pledged on it with my sister, I hadn’t fully accepted the imperativeness until I’d heard Dr Kaufmann say so. That’s the thing about doctors, I find. Everyone believes them. Maybe that’s why they’re sought-after.

So when I got home, I told my sister all and we thanked God for my clickety shoulder and crossed Dr Kaufmann off the list. We were not put off finding a man, however, and decided to strike while the iron was hot and that instead of the doctor we’d make a start on Mr Lomax, the Liberal candidate and handyman. He was top of the list after all and a good bet as he’d already been to the house.

My sister wrote to him straight away. She didn’t seem able to call up our mother’s turns of phrase as well as I could, which was frustrating, and eventually I had to intervene to make it authentic. It was my sister’s writing paper and envelope, though, and her idea in the first place, so I suppose you could say it was a joint effort.

Dear Mr Lomax,

How silly of me! I realize now I didn’t get around to thanking you properly for all the little odd jobs you so kindly did when we moved into the house. I feel it’s imperative to thank you properly. So would you like to come and have a drink some time – hot water or Bell’s or whatever you fancy? Perhaps we could discuss more jobs. Please telephone to make a date.

Yours truly,

Elizabeth Vogel x

We delivered the letter by hand and later told our mother that Mr Lomax had rung up on the phone asking how everything was going – house-wise.

Our mother was irritated by this and said, ‘House-wise?’

And my clever sister, quick as anything, said, ‘For goodness’ sake, Mum, he likes you and wants to see you.’

And our mother shrugged and said, ‘Christ.’ But seemed pleased.

Then a couple of days went by and we hadn’t heard from Mr Lomax and thought that was probably that, so my sister asked our mother if she might ring him.

‘Why on earth would I ring Mr Fucking Lomax?’ she asked.

And my sister said, ‘Because he wants to see you.’

Then, only a moment later and to our amazement, the phone rang and we heard our mother say, ‘Well, then, I suppose Friday would be lovely.’ Albeit rather sternly.

On Friday at six p.m. Mr Lomax parked his van at a funny angle on the grass verge and clambered out in his work overall and chunky light-tan boots. He said he’d parked on the verge like that so as not to block any exits. And I think I realized then that he wasn’t going to be our mother’s cup of tea. She couldn’t care less about exits being blocked and would rather people had other things on their mind.

Our mother asked Mr Lomax what he’d like to drink and he asked for a mug of hot water and our mother, who already had a glass of Bell’s on the go, said, ‘Hot water – really? What kind of a drink is that?’ She made a face and ran the hot tap. Mr Lomax asked if he might have it boiled from the kettle and our mother looked exasperated.

They sat at the kitchen table and Mr Lomax talked a lot about the difference in drinking quality between water from the water tank, water from the mains supply and water from a heated tank or boiler. He talked about the house and its condition. He was concerned about the possibility of pests, with us having chickens and the closeness of the bakery over the wall. He felt pests were ‘almost inevitable’. He was concerned about the positioning of the boiler and the lack of space for ventilation and the looseness of the stair banister.

Our mother offered him another drink. He had more hot water and our mother questioned him rather rudely about the drink choice. Mr Lomax explained that he’d had a recurring fissure and it was necessary to stay hydrated to avoid a relapse. Our mother probably realized then she had nothing to lose and we ended up acting a bit of her play for him. We often acted bits of the play(s) but not usually with an audience, and that made it quite nerve-racking, albeit exciting.

It was a scene where the separating couple fights over custody of a young Labrador.

Roderick (played by our mother): I’m taking Debbie.

Adele (me): No, no, you’re not. Debbie is devoted to me.

Roderick: You’ve got the children.

Adele: I want Debbie (she holds Debbie in her arms) – you’ve got the toaster.

Roderick: You’re hurting Debbie (pulls Adele’s arm).

(The couple tussles.)

Adele: You’re hurting me!

Roderick: Give him over.

Adele: No.

(Roderick submits and leaves the stage. Adele cuddles Debbie.)

Our fight over Debbie had been vigorous and a bit exhausting, and after acting the scene we had a short break so our mother could have a cigarette. During the break I pointed out what I thought was an error in the script (Roderick refers to Debbie as ‘him’ when Debbie is actually a bitch and therefore the line should have read ‘give her over’) but our mother claimed she’d written the error in – to reinforce the point that Roderick was not on intimate terms with the Labrador, he was just being an awkward bastard. Our mother stubbed out her cigarette. It was only half smoked and it snapped at the filter and the white part carried on smoking thickly. I knew she was ready to continue so I announced the next act, ‘My Husband Has Gone’, but before we could begin it Mr Lomax said he had to go.

As he struggled into his anorak he said he knew of a man, an ex-plumber, who needed work due to losing his Confederation of Registered Gas Installers certificate and might be more suitable for what she had in mind, and that he’d drop his card through the letter box. And then he strode away to his van on the verge.

‘Strange chap,’ said our mother, and I had to agree.

‘Retarded,’ said my sister, who loved saying that word.

‘Crab,’ said Jack, who’d called him that before and rarely changed his mind.

There’s not going to be a better moment to explain the play(s). At the time of her separation from our father, our mother had experienced only one success in her whole life. Just one, and it had been the writing of a play entitled The Planet when she was sixteen years old. She’d thought it up and written it by herself and then entered it into a competition. She’d won first prize and the play had been put on at a theatre in one of the universities and acted out for a whole week by drama students (that was the prize).

Our mother hadn’t enjoyed writing the play that much and, in spite of the exciting title, the subject had been mundane and gloomy (her words) but, by coincidence, mundane and gloomy plays were all the rage then and the judges had been overwhelmed by her maturity and insight. And though a gloomy mood pervaded the play, she enjoyed all the attention of people saying she was a genius at writing plays and brilliant at dialogue and structure etc.

Therefore, as time marched on and her life was just a long grey smear with no relief – only staring at flames, giving birth and drinking whisky – she would often try to re-create that time of recognition and acknowledgement. After our father left, play-writing became a daily thing. And it was mostly just the long, ongoing play of her life with snippets expanded, exaggerated, explained or remedied. The Play. Occasionally she might write a classical version or a poem, but it was essentially the same story. Hers.

Sometimes writing the play warded off misery and she’d bounce around with staging ideas and on those days we hated the play because it was those days she’d beg us to enact it when we’d rather be watching Dick Emery. Other times, she didn’t have the energy to write (usually because she’d not started early enough and was too drunk) and on these days we longed for the play.

Our mother was the main character and was always played by me because I could really play her and had her exact voice and mannerisms. Our mother always took the role of our father or the significant man because she was taller than us and this proved important. This meant she and I often fought or tussled and shouted at each other (in role). My sister, who was less dramatic than our mother or me, always played the other characters such as teachers, neighbours and so forth. My little brother Jack had only occasional, tiny (albeit important) parts such as an ambulance man or a judge and, once, a pharmacist.

Although I had mixed feelings about performing the play, I had to admit it was well written. Clever, sometimes funny and always worldly – as good as anything you saw on telly or on stage except perhaps for Terence Rattigan, who didn’t do as much explaining and yet revealed so much. Our mother did rather spell things out and her characters occasionally broke the fourth wall, which I considered cheating. The play didn’t bother me as much as it bothered my sister. Except that what bothered her bothered the rest of us in the end.