News Where You Are

25. Francis,1975

His mother walks in from the kitchen carrying a tray. Francis studies her closely. He looks at her mouth, her eyes, the line of her shoulders and he knows that today is an orange day. As if to confirm it, she looks at him and flashes a wide smile.

He was very little when he decided that his mother had orange days and purple days. Now he’s more grown-up he could use other words to describe the contrast, but the notion of colours has stuck and nothing else seems quite right.

‘Well, are we ready for the party?’

He grins and nods.

On purple days his mother pulls plants up in the garden, she looks out of the window at nothing in particular for impossibly long stretches and speaks to her sister in a low voice on the telephone for hours. Sometimes she is cross with Francis whilst at others she doesn’t seem to notice he’s there at all.

On orange days she tells stories, she invents games, she takes Francis on expeditions and most of all she makes him laugh.

She sets the tray down on the coffee table and Francis surveys the assortment of crisps and sweets, which his mother always inexplicably refers to as ‘rocks’. They have been carefully placed as usual in an eccentric selection of crockery. A few Smarties in an egg cup, a heap of cheese snips in a gravy boat, assorted crisps laid out on best plates. She and Francis refer to this arrangement as ‘a party’, though no other guests are ever invited.

Francis’s father is out for the evening attending something called a consultation meeting and when Francis asked his father explained what that was, but the explanation seemed to pass straight through his ears. Francis doesn’t know if his father knows about the little parties that sometimes happen in his absence. He suspects that Douglas would not approve of such indulgence and crockery transgression.

Francis sits in his usual place, perched on something his mother calls ‘a pouffe’. Sometimes when she rests her feet on the pouffe while reading a book, Francis notices his father’s eyes narrowing slightly in the direction of the pouffe, which seems to offend him. The pouffe is black and white and made of leather or maybe plastic. When he was very little, Francis used to pretend it was the driver’s seat of a sports car and use a plate as a steering wheel whilst revving away noisily. Now, though, he is older and more sophisticated and is happy enough to sit and just imagine the car around him whilst enjoying the goodies on the table in front of him.

His mother has put fizzy orange pop in the teapot and now holds the teapot high to pour it into their teacups. Francis knows what’s coming next.

His mother puts on a funny high voice: ‘More tea, vicar?’

‘Yes, please,’ Francis replies, in what he thinks is a vicar’s voice.

His mother then pretends not to notice the teacup that Francis holds out, and with a shocked expression says: ‘Oh, vicar, not from the spout! Why, you’re no better than a filthy chimp!’

And the idea of a vicar drinking orange pop straight from the teapot never fails to make Francis laugh so much he falls off the pouffe.

Francis wonders if the reason he thinks of his mother’s moods as purple and orange might be something to do with her clothes. He remembers a purple dress she used to wear years ago. The fabric was shiny and patterned and the noise it made as it rubbed against her tights used to make Francis’s teeth feel horrible. Around the same time she used to wear a bright orange polo-neck jumper made of soft, fluffy wool that he loved to press his face against when she picked him up.

His mother has more purple days now. When he was little, they were very rare — small dark clouds that would drift across an otherwise clear sky. Now, though, the orange days seem rarer. He has noticed too that sometimes what starts as an orange day can suddenly become a purple day for no apparent reason. Last Saturday his father worked in his study all day. At first his mother seemed fine, but by lunchtime Francis noticed that she was banging pans more loudly on the hob than seemed necessary and then she forgot to put chocolate powder in his milk and shouted at him when he asked about it. He has noticed that a purple day never changes into an orange one.

They sit now at the coffee table, he on his pouffe, his mother kneeling on the floor, munching their way through the smorgasbord and listening to records. Maureen has piles of records from her teenage years and early twenties. She says they are rock-and-roll records and Francis quite likes them too. He hears the sound of the arm moving mechanically and lowering the needle to the record. There are a few moments of hiss and mild crackle before he recognizes the song about the thin girl called Bony Maronie.

His mother laughs: ‘Do you remember when I tried to teach you to dance?’

‘Which time?’

‘Any of them — they always ended the same way — us in a heap on the floor.’

Francis smiles.

‘You’re made of elastic. I’ve never known a floppier dancier. It was like dancing with an eel. Nothing like your father.’

Francis looks at her. ‘Dad doesn’t dance.’

‘No, of course he doesn’t now, but he used to, when I first met him. He was a marvellous dancer. He took it very seriously.’ Her eyes flicker. ‘Well — you can imagine.’

In fact, Francis can’t imagine at all. He can think of nothing more incredible than the idea of his father dancing to a song about a girl who resembles macaroni. He has to stop himself thinking about it.

‘That’s why I’m rubbish at rugby.’

‘Are you really rubbish, dear?’

‘I’m too floppy — everyone pushes me out of the way.’

His mother looks worried. ‘Do the other boys tease you?’

Francis shrugs. ‘Sometimes they say things, but I don’t mind.’

‘Really?’

‘I think rugby’s silly.’

‘Well, I couldn’t agree more.’ She is quiet for a moment and then adds, ‘But I dare say you write far better essays than some of those boys, or are better at whistling, or know more about cars. People put emphasis on all the wrong things, Francis — being good at rugby, or being a fast runner or living in a nice big house. They think as long as everything looks good on the surface that’s all that matters — but it’s not, is it? It’s what’s underneath that counts.’

Francis doesn’t really understand what his mother is talking about, but he nods anyway.

She looks at him and smiles. ‘I’m preaching to the converted, aren’t I?’

Francis frowns. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Nothing. Ignore me, Francis.’ She reaches over and holds his head tightly with both hands and pretends to try to twist it. She gasps with the effort and gives up: ‘No, can’t be done!’

‘What are you doing?’

‘Your head — it’s screwed on nice and tight already— can’t be budged.’

Francis thinks this may be a new game. ‘Shall I test yours is on tight?’

His mother laughs. ‘Oh, goodness no. I’m sure it’s not — you might twist it right off. I’m sure living with your father for fifteen years has loosened a few of my screws.’

Her laughter dies off and Francis panics that the day is about to change colour. He scurries off to his room to find Mrs Bumbles, a cuddly cat from his infancy. Mrs Bumbles should have been discarded years ago, but the expression of outright alarm on her face has always amused both Francis and his mother and has led to a colourful history being created for the stuffed toy. Francis runs back into the living room to the pile of records. He finds the one he’s looking for and puts it on the turntable. As Guy Mitchell starts to sing, Mrs Bumbles rises wide-eyed from behind the sofa:

(She wears red feathers and a hooly-hooly skirt)

(She wears red feathers and a hooly-hooly skirt)

She lives on just cokey-nuts and fish from the sea

A rose in her hair, a gleam in her eyes

And love in her heart for me

Mrs Bumbles clearly disapproves of the song. She makes repeated attempts to leave the makeshift stage, but is prevented by the other hand holding the album cover showing Mitchell’s cheeky face as he prevents her departure and serenades her against her will. Francis crouches behind the sofa performing the puppet show, listening to his mother laugh as she always does at Mrs Bumbles’s mounting indignation. When the song is finished, he and Mrs Bumbles take a bow. His mother claps enthusiastically.

‘Thank you, Mrs Bumbles. Thank you, Mr Mitchell. And thank you most of all to the puppet master.’ She smiles widely at Francis. ‘You do make me laugh, darling.’ Francis smiles back and tries to believe that it’s always like this.