Page 2 of A Good Mother
Hearing it from the PM himself was still a shock, though. The camera had zoomed in for maximum effect while his familiar bumbling manner had been replaced with a more statesman-like approach as he addressed the nation. It was just a shame he hadn’t bothered to brush his hair.
Boris got on Gina’s nerves full stop, but his shabby appearance and double standards were the least of her concerns. Top of the list was the fact they all had to stay at home and a new term, ‘lockdown’, now applied to the UK, which had followed in European footsteps. While the press fired questions at the PM, Gina’s brain pinged over its own list of what-ifs and what-nows.
All she knew for sure was that if they stayed at home, safe in their little haven, it might all be okay. And by that she didn’t just mean germ free.
For a start, if you had to be locked down, Swallow’s Nest Cottage was as good a place as any. The envy of many villagers, the chocolate box exterior was double fronted, with whitewashed walls and a thatched roof, set back from the road on a quiet lane with only two neighbours, one either side. Far enough apart to give them privacy, near enough not to feel isolated. The front garden was enclosed by a low picket fence and the lawns on either side of the central path were bordered by flowerbeds, tended by their gardener and about to come into bloom. But it was once you went inside that the cottage truly blossomed.
Despite the cottage’s age and attractive appearance, they’d swerved a graded listing. After three rounds of planning applications, Jimmy had been given permission to bring Swallow’s Nest into the twenty-first century. The two front rooms of the house had been transformed into a stunning lounge and dining room, thanks to Gina’s skill as a lapsed interior designer. It was when you went through to the rear that Jimmy’s undisputed talent was fully on show.
Courtesy of a two-story extension, the cottage now boasted four spacious en suite rooms; the fifth had been transformed into Jimmy’s home-office that overlooked the garden. Below, the kitchen-snug-diner expanded outwards where the vaulted glass roof and bi-folding doors allowed the outside in. The manicured lawns boasted a decked dining area with barbeque and in the corner was a wood-clad summer house and the children’s play area. Home.
It was their haven, designed by Jimmy for his family, to his wife’s specifications so that every box on her wish list was ticked. Whenever praise was heaped on Swallow’s Nest, he always insisted it was a joint effort, their design skills combined.
Gina, however, saw her input as embellishment. He was the diamond who sparkled, and her jewel attracted a lot of attention. Too much, in fact.
While Jimmy appeared to be absorbed by the press conference, Gina watched Max and Mimi playing tig. At least they were oblivious, but the whole thing would take some explaining in words that a five-year-old would understand. Their three-year-old wouldn’t really care.
Ironically, though, Gina considered lockdown to be a positive. The conversation she’d imagined having with her children, as she lay in bed, riddled with anxiety, might not happen. All those hours – three months, one week and four days of driving herself insane might have been for nothing because the dreadful virus that was rampaging across the world had actually bought her some time.
Jimmy’s voice cut into her thoughts and her head snapped in his direction. ‘Babe, can you turn that off. It’s going to be on a sodding loop all night and the whole thing’s doing my head in.’
Picking up the remote by her side, Gina muted the sound. It was quickly replaced by her children’s voices on full volume as they played in the garden. They looked happy enough and that’s how she wanted it to stay: their lives untouched by trauma, not blighted by a disease or the failures of their parents.
There was so much to think about, a new way of life to navigate, face masks and frenzied handwashing. Banalities like making another trip to the supermarket that only the day before had been pillaged by selfish lunatics. For now, toilet roll was the least of her worries. What Gina needed to know was that what was going on in her husband’s head outweighed everything.
Ignoring the swirling in her stomach and the wave of anxiety that threatened to crush her sternum, Gina grasped onto a life-raft named hope. Modulating her voice so as not to betray her inner turmoil she offered up a question. ‘So, that’s that. The rumours came true. Are you okay, love? You look really mithered. Are you worried about work?’
Jimmy didn’t answer, he seemed lost in a world of his own and it set alarm bells ringing, causing her default setting to kick in – desperation veiled by enthusiasm.
‘I’m sure it’ll be fine and the whole team will get used to functioning from home, and you’ve got the office here. And best of all you’ll have me. I can be your dedicated personal assistant. I’ll even go on the butty run, to the kitchen… and keep you topped up with coffee.’ She smiled, the special one that she used on Max when he hovered at the classroom door, or when she needed to pretend that needles didn’t hurt, and that granny’s sloppy stew really wouldn’t poison them.
Jimmy brushed a hand over his face and sighed. ‘I’m not too worried. My contracts are long-term projects, and I can still do my bit from here. And I’m used to remote meetings so it’s no big deal in that respect. The only thing that concerns me are the sites where the build’s about to start. Delays mean money lost across the board, not least to the construction teams who’ll be stood down.
‘That’ll be a worry financially, for workforce and the firms that employ them. Let’s hope it’s only for a few weeks and we’ll get back to normal soon as. Trust this to happen now, when the weather’s good, the best bloody time to build.’ He shook his head and stood.
‘Do you fancy a brew? And some cheeky biscuits while the monsters are occupied.’ He looked outside to where Max and Mimi were playing on the grass.
Gina nodded, watching him intently as he headed over to the kitchen, knowing he needed something to occupy his mind and hands. That was Jimmy all over. Apart from being a workaholic, he always saw the whole picture, taking his responsibilities seriously. To Gina and their children, his mum and dad, his friends, his work colleagues on each rung of the ladder but more so, those on the lower section with whom he would always have an affinity.
Yes, he’d done well. His family wanted for nothing. They lived in a spectacularly beautiful home. He drove a car that turned heads when he pulled up at the golf club. He moved in professional circles, rubbing shoulders with the Cheshire set in between jetting off to Europe and beyond for work.
He could hold his own in the board room, at sportsman’s dinners, in the company of demanding millionaires or town planners with bees in their bonnets. Then again he was just as happy in the village pub or round at his parents for Friday chippy tea. At the core of Jimmy were his working-class roots and he clung on to them with a passion.
Jimmy’s dad was a builder, a self-employed grafter and as a child, seeing the homes his father created brick by brick, fuelled a dream. From solid foundations of hard work and a close-knit family, Jimmy followed in his father’s footsteps albeit at the creative end of the process.
His talent as an architect aside, her husband shone, stood out from the crowd. He was her vision of perfection. Even in his tracksuit bottoms and T-shirt that was splattered with some of Mimi’s lunch, he still made her heart… ache. For so many reasons.
As he flicked on the kettle, grabbed milk from the fridge and then rummaged in the cupboard for biscuits, eating as he moved, dropping crumbs everywhere, Gina tried to banish her aches and worries. He made her smile and wonder how a man who was obsessed by ordered lines, ruled by accuracy and precise angles could create so much mess in such a short space of time. And Jimmy had made such a mess, she was sure of it, and not just in her high gloss kitchen.
CHAPTERTWO
Jimmy never stopped eatingand if the kids caught him raiding the cupboards her ‘no snacks before dinner’ rule would crash and burn, but how could she resist him? How could anyone?
Don’t go there. Focus.
She could feel herself descending again, her mood dipping, her mind switching up a gear into overdrive, reminding her of the task at hand. The need to claw back some sense of order.
As her tummy rumbled, the threat of failure and lack of food began to overwhelm her. She didn’t need to eat, though. The answer wasn’t in a biscuit, or a bar of chocolate. Instead, she ignored hunger – that was the easy part – and homed in on the present, where they were at. Not how her life might turn out.
