My dad, Don, says my mum, Erica, sometimes forgets things because she is a bit run down and needs an early night. And because I sometimes forget things too since The Incident, I try not to make it into a big deal because I know that she means well. So that is why I did not say anything all the other nights she carried on chopping up my food. But when she did it again just now, I felt as if I had just had enough. I felt like I did not want her chopping up my food any more. It was okay for her to do it when I was getting better but I am stronger now and can cut up my own food.
‘Of course you can cut up your own food,’ says my mum, Erica. ‘I’m such a silly to forget like that. I promise it won’t happen again.’
Everything goes back to normal after this. My dad asks my mum about her plans for the rest of the week and my mum asks my dad the same question, and they chat away to each other until I ask my mum to pass me the salt.
‘I’m not sure you should be eating so much salt,’ she says, ‘it’s not good for you.’
‘But I like salt on my food.’
‘I know you do, darling, but my GP is forever telling me to cut down on my salt intake because it’s not good for my blood pressure, so he’s bound to say the same about you. I’ll get you the Lo-salt if you like. I haven’t seen it for months on end but I’m sure it’s in one of the cupboards somewhere.’
As she gets up from the table to get the Lo-salt, I say, ‘Why?’ and she turns around.
‘Why what darling?’
‘Why would your GP say the same about me? I have not got high blood pressure.’
My mum, Erica, and my dad, Don, look at each other then at me. Dad says, ‘I think what your mother is trying to say, James, is that we all probably need to cut down on our salt intake. Isn’t that right, darling? I mean my blood pressure is fine but then again, cutting down on my salt intake won’t do me any harm.’
I push out my chair so that I can stand up. This is quite difficult for me to do because my right leg does not work as well as it used to.
‘Where are you going?’ asks Mum.
‘To my room,’ I say. ‘I am not hungry any more.’
Dad says, ‘James,’ in a voice that sounds as if he is really tired, and Mum says, ‘No, Don, it’s all right. Let him go,’ in a voice that sounds a lot like she might want to cry.
The next day after breakfast my dad and I go out in the car to Stratford-upon-Avon to run some errands while my mum has some quiet time. My parents and I live in their farmhouse in Stow-on-the-Wold. Before The Incident, when I was just about to become an MP, I lived with my girlfriend Zara in a penthouse apartment in the centre of Birmingham. The apartment was in one of my own developments from when I used to be a property developer. Now though, I live with my mum and dad and I am not an MP or a property developer, and Zara is no longer my girlfriend.
Today is a Thursday.
My dad, Don, used to work in finance but he does not now because he is retired. He used to work in The City and was almost always away from home even at the weekends. These days he is at home all the time and mostly mows the lawn and plays golf with friends and takes my mum to all the places she wants to go.
When I asked my mum, Erica, what she would do with her quiet time while dad and I were out, she smiled and said, ‘I’m sure I’ll find something to occupy me.’
In the car my dad listens to the radio. On the radio two women are talking. At first my dad, Don, seems fine listening to the two women talking but the more they say the more he sighs. When one woman on the radio asks the other woman on the radio how important the role of breastfeeding is to her as a young mother, my dad sighs and switches it off.
‘I’m as much a man of the world as the next fellow,’ he says, ‘but I genuinely have no idea why they feel the need to talk about that sort of thing on the radio. Can’t they just chat about books or tell us something interesting about history? Why does everything these days have to be about bodily functions?’
I am not sure if my dad wants an answer because it is not clear from his voice. I have not got anything to say anyway so I decide to keep quiet and look out of the window.
Where we live in Stow-on-the-Wold there are lots of trees and the roads are narrow and everything is very green. But soon all of that is left behind and there are lots of houses, shops and petrol stations and the roads are big and wide. When I lived in my penthouse apartment in Birmingham, I was so high up that I could see all across the city. It was a lovely view during the day but it was absolutely at its best at night because the city looked like it went on forever.
‘You know you shouldn’t have spoken to your mother like that,’ says my dad as we sit at traffic lights. ‘She was very upset by what you said.’
‘All I said was that I did not want her to cut my food up any more.’
‘I know, son, but your mother … she’s … well … I suppose what I’m trying to say is that she tries her best, you know that, don’t you? And well, I think perhaps we shouldn’t have any more outbursts like that.’
‘But I was just telling her that I did not want my food cut up.’
‘I know you were, James, and I understand that completely but your mother’s not like you and me, is she? She’s well, you know, sensitive and so all I’m saying is whatever that was yesterday, let’s try not to do it again, okay? It’s just not worth the botheration.’
I say, ‘Fine okay,’ because I do not really want to talk about it any more and then he turns the radio on again. The first woman on the radio has stopped asking questions about breastfeeding and is now talking to a different woman on the radio about being a political activist in Iran. My dad grins at me and pretends to wipe sweat from his forehead. I think this might be a joke about breastfeeding, but then again I am not sure.
In Stratford-upon-Avon we run errands that my mum, Erica, has scribbled down on a sheet of paper for my dad, so that he does not forget them. Dad will be sixty-seven on his next birthday and is always saying his memory is not quite what it used to be. Whenever he says this, I always think to myself, ‘Well, at least it is not as bad as mine.’ I never say this out loud though, because I do not think he would find it funny. My parents never joke about The Incident. In fact, if they can help it, they never talk about it at all.
On my mum’s list are things like picking up an Internet order from Waitrose, getting spare keys cut for the lock for one of our outbuildings, buying cards for some family members who have birthdays coming up, returning a cardigan that she bought from Laura Ashley which on second thoughts she decided made her look like ‘mutton dressed as lamb’, and picking up some broccoli from the Sainsbury’s local for tonight’s supper.
As we leave the supermarket with our broccoli, my dad, Don, tells me about the last item on the list.
‘I need to pick up mum’s necklace from the jeweller’s,’ he says. ‘You know, the one I’m getting her as an anniversary present.’
My parents have been married for a long time. I cannot remember how long but it is long enough for them to be having a big party to celebrate. They are inviting lots of family and friends and it is being held at their favourite Italian restaurant in Broadway which is not very far from where we live.