I once knew a woman. A woman I thought I liked. I still know that woman, but I don’t like her anymore.
Thinking you like someone is a game of exigencies, particularly when they live next door. You liked them because at a particular time in your life they seemed to cut the mustard. They seemed to appeal to whatever was clamorous in your nature, like knowing you were essentially a deadbeat but this one particular person might advance you to an upbeat.
That’s not clear, is it? I could try this again, but I’m not Ernest Hemingway. I am not prepared to wear myself out over this. Perhaps this rather mundane story, in its unravelling, will do a better job than my own marmalade sentences.
*****
In west London, (it doesn’t matter where exactly), there exists the usual English compromise between urban living and enough open space to entertain the thought that life is worth living. Croissants or a full English breakfast in the morning, a stint in the office, and a well-convened evening. Electricity on, gas on, TV on, and the most of it fueled by middle-class crap. An effulgence which keeps on giving.
I was married to Edward at the time. He was a hedge fund manager who earned enough money to allow me to be a suburban wife. At least while the children were young. Sounds good? Of course it does, but all good things come with a reckoning, because every year a woman isn’t honing her skills is another year when she, by then too old to give a shit, has to somehow find her skills when her husband leaves her for another woman.
Cliche? Well, of course it is. Life is just a cliche on a cliche on a cliche. Life is a mille-feuille of layered, fucking cliche.
Despite my turn of phrase, I am not bitter about that. My husband still pays the bills when I can’t, (which is seldom), and he is now on wife number three. I have long since concluded that this is his problem and not mine. On occasion he stays in the spare room, and I like his company. He is rumpled, flawed and likeable. He always was.
You’ll want to know how I earn a living. I hate stories where everyone wafts around being comfortable without explaining how. I took a course in estate agency and I’m only quite successful, but successful enough. I have just enough ambition to pay my way.
I could have a lot more, but I choose not to.
I know where it can lead.
*****
Next door are a couple called Alex and Alexis Duplessis. She goes by the name of Lexi, presumably because it rhymes with sexy. These are not their real names, of course, but with names like that you go places, right?
You simply have to worry about people like this.
But just in the beginning, I didn’t worry about people like this. That was just me as I was then, a young wife ignoring her lizard brain instincts.
Alex and my husband worked for the same bank. Our homes were offered at a discount rate to top notch employees. They were purchased with clout and accepted with fawning gratitude.
But I was never a part of that world. My husband, and the neighbours, were always going off, chatting and plotting about how they’d rule the world. Me? The old channels on the TV and a swell in my belly, waiting for my own ambition to come to pass. To be a mother, and all that it entailed.
Lexi and me had three kids each at pretty much the same time. In consecutive order, we had two boys and one girl apiece.
The euphoric nausea of pregnancy and the subsequent, pretty full-on childcare can insulate you against reality. It took a year or so before I finally got the handle on her.
*****
When you have kids, life goes by in a blaze. If you don’t have them, or you don’t want them, that’s fine by me. They’re a pain in the arse. In fact, it’s worse than that. They’re a really expensive pain in the arse. The only time you’re ever going to hear an encouraging word out of them is at your funeral, the eulogy being a citation of all those things they could have said when you were actually alive.
But you love them all the same, which is the biggest and most necessary act of narcissism the human race can bring to the parade.
But Lexi? She didn’t see her kids in those terms at all. The narcissism, absolutely, but it was never transferred like it ought to be. In Lexi’s world, those kids were a reflection of her. Most parents get out of that stage after primary school. Clever ones do it after kindergarten, but Lexi’s children were always, in her mind, a loud and persistent echo of herself. If one of them fucked up, it was all on her. So she went at them really hard. Their childish flaws were not matters to be gently counselled but to be trodden on, not because she knew what was best for them, but what was least worse for her.
At first, she was golden. I mean, she had all the latest gadgets and toys. She read about controlled crying and what you should eat to get the most nutritious breast milk. She would stop me drinking anything at all in the aftermath or expectation of pregnancy. She was, in all things, the boss of me.
And her methods were extreme.
The boys came first. Oh, she was into the pureed fodder, quartered grapes, muslin squares and calico sheets. I, on the other hand, fed them anything that slid down their gullets with relative ease. After the first child I stopped taking notice of her, but she genuinely believed that in all ways and every way, she was a better mother than me. I didn’t care by then. I was rolling in contentment.
Contentment is a much undervalued ambition. It is writ in stone that happiness is the summit of human achievement. Politicians tell you this all the time, as do beauty queens and advertising agencies, but they are so wide of the mark. Happiness is meant to be fleeting. Happiness is when your team wins the cup. Contentment is when you enjoyed the game anyway. Happiness experienced in the evening leaves a bilious morning, wondering where the feeling went. Contentment requires no such regret. Contentment is just getting on with life without bitching about every damned corner of it.
And I was content with my imperfect, jam-stained boys in a way she never was with hers. They had to be taller, stronger and cleverer. And all of that got worse when she had her daughter.
Well, of course it did.
I’m not phrasing this right, but what can I say? I’m a lover, not a writer.
*****
Daisy was never good enough. From the day she was born, her mother checked her against all weights, checks and balances and found her wanting. As if in anticipation of her mother’s ambitions for her, Daisy developed eczema, a squint eye, thin, sketchy hair and a tendency towards colds. My own daughter, thriving on loving neglect, was almost everything that poor Daisy was not. And Lexi, well she didn’t like that one bit.
When Daisy was still a scrap, Lexi’s boys were pushed into every after-school and extracurricular club she could find, playing the dilettante game, believing that if she pushed them hard enough they would both find the one thing they would excel at. It got so bad the boys were exhausted; I mean, really bone-tired, dragging their satchels home and standing by while Lexi rifled through their contents for hidden reports, unfinished essays, art work, notifications of the next PTA.
It got so bad that her husband stepped in. He won that battle but he couldn’t win the war, because out on the right flank was Daisy, and he had no troops to muster for her. ‘Girl business,’ he said to me once. In other words, a lamb to the slaughter.
*****
We live in a gentle valley, but if you want the chocolate box look, don’t pan out too wide. Small country, small country views. There’s just this one bit of unimpeachable England which can be seen from our back garden, with the obligatory obelisk and the grazing pastures. And there’s a line of trees, in the middle of which is a red dress hanging neatly from a limb. It’s been there for three years. Occasionally it is removed, laundered, ironed and returned. It has become a part of the landscape, to which a strange untruth attaches itself like a canker on the trunk of its host.
It is a boutique dress which over the years has become a little shorter than its original. People climb the tree and remove it for a lark. The local council climb the tree and remove it for contravention of some obscure by-law about garments in trees. But either way, another red dress always replaces it. The original ball gown, a shapeless confection of puffed sleeves and Bardot neckline, is now more of a party dress, something a relatively good girl might wear.
But the original was the dress Daisy was wearing to a piano recital her mother was quite convinced she would win.
The relentless second-hand ambition began with sport, but when it became clear that Daisy had no aptitude for any of it, from hockey to table tennis, Lexi quickly withdrew her from that arena. Few things so starkly remind a person of their own shortcomings than on the sports field. For parents like Lexi, the failure of an offspring is a double blow to the esteem.
And so began the French lessons, dance lessons, singing lessons, spelling bees, art classes and the piano, and Daisy, with a consistency which ought to be admired, was dreadful at all of them. And it got me to thinking, as I watched her play with my daughter over the years, just why the hell does everyone have to be good at something? Why can’t we just exist, from day to day, taking our pleasures from the dawn chorus and not the human one? Just why can’t we accept people for who they are and not what they are? Why, at every social gathering, comes the predictable question, ‘What do you do?’ instead of the more pertinent question of ‘How do you do?’
And here’s where I would love to say that Daisy, poor Daisy, understood all of the above and drifted through life in an insouscient haze of non-achievement. But that’s not how it was. Her mother was like a Looney Tunes hammer that wouldn’t give up until her daughter was literally drilled into the hard core.
It broke my heart. It broke my family’s heart.
When Daisy was seventeen, the piano was just about the only thing that Lexi had left to cling on to. It was the only achievement where Daisy was middle-ranking, and that was only because Lexi made her play it every day until her fingers, those graceful digits which are supposed to glide the faux-ivory, locked up in protest.
And Lexi, she kissed arse everywhere she went, trying, with no evidence of success, to gain an advantage for her daughter.
Me and my daughter were invited to the recital on that night. We didn’t want to go, not because we didn’t want to support Daisy but because we did. The girl was just a wreck through worry, and we didn’t want to play any part in it. We wanted her to sit with us in front of the TV and eat Quavers.
And you know when you can sometimes feel thunder before it comes? When your head tightens and there’s this rumbling headache, soon to play out in the sky? Well, that’s how me and my girl felt when we were getting ready, like something was going to split asunder, because there was never a single unit of skin and bone that could have endured the pressure that Lexi constantly applied to her daughter.
The dress Lexi had chosen was unsuitable. The colour didn’t suit Daisy’s complexion and the style didn’t suit her frame. She spent an hour spraying Daisy’s thin hair into an elaborate beehive, and the only reason she chose the look was because it mirrored her own outfit. Lexi, of course, wore it better.
We watched Alex and Lexi Duplessis (yep) drive away in a taxi with their daughter in the back. We said we’d be there in time to see Daisy. Hers was the fourth recital in a field of twelve - which didn’t bode well because they were ranked by audition performances, and the best played last. We nearly didn’t go. It was like taking a free seat at a public hanging.
It’s true that we didn’t get to hear Daisy play, but that’s not because we were late. It’s because Daisy didn’t come when they called. In fact, that last minute bully-off at the doors of the sequestered area was the last time Lexi ever saw her daughter.
*****
The red dress was found in the alley behind the auditorium, but there was never a search for Daisy because within the folds of the dress was a letter. For her mother. I never got to read it but I can guess the drift. Daisy called me, minutes later, and told me she needed somewhere to stay. I told the police. They spoke to her. They spoke to her parents. They absolutely knew the score right from the beginning. And I told her where to go where she would be safe and content.
She lives with my ex-husband and his third wife in a garden flat not eighteen miles from her old family home. We visit a lot, me, my kids, Daisy’s brothers and Daisy’s father. But that red dress stays up in that old tree because Lexi, well she just can’t stand down.
She tells anyone who will listen that her daughter was kidnapped or murdered. The dress twists and turns with the seasons, bleached by the sun, drenched by the rain and whipped by the wind, and all the while, the piteous, mournful symbolism is lost in the truth.
And you know what? In many respects Lexi is the blueprint of sanity, but her ambition led her down an alley so desolate that a dead daughter was a far more appealing proposition than an unaccomplished one.
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Sadly, it’s not the human lot to be satisfied with just contentment- even when it causes terrible pain to others, or themselves. Great turn of phrases (is that grammatically correct - not sure). Enjoyed the story of the overly ambitious mother who was never satisfied. You cleverly led us down the garden path, but the happier twist was satisfying.
Something very creepy about that hanging dress. It developed a life of its own.
Let’s hope Daisy has found her own firm of contentment away from her mother’s clutches.
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Thanks, Helen. I'm so glad you enjoyed it!
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Why do parents demand perfection? No one is perfect, including the parents. I tried to make each of my kids feel special for simply being themselves, and for no other reason. You did a great job comparing two types of parenting styles.
Oh, and I'm putting this quote in my Quote Book, "Contentment is a much undervalued ambition." Well said. I can so relate.
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I quite agree, Daniel. The English comedian Peter Cook was once asked why he never reached his full potential, and he replied that one should never reach it. It should always be shimmering in the far-off pink horizon.
My interpretation of that is that when we die, those of us who lack the necessary drive can go to our graves still believing that we could have been a contender!
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Loved this story and I'm glad it didn't have the tragic ending you were tricking us into expecting--well done.
The line "Contentment is just getting on with life without bitching about every damned corner of it." really resonated with me. You deftly described a lesson so many of us should learn.
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Thanks, Maisie. I'm glad you enjoyed reading it!
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Aah this story resonates with me as a tutor. Soo many parents want their children to excel, to be better, to be smarter. And some kids are just not cut out to be. Some children should just be left to find things out for themselves, and find things that they are good at that are not in the field of academia or in the “parent’s approval” box. Well written with a good pacing. And yes, I am going to need to learn some new words now! 😂
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Thank you, Crystal. Yes, I sincerely believe that there are people, (I am amongst them), who are not destined for greatness - and whilst the world needs ambitious and talented people, the rest of us should be encouraged to practice the art of contentment!
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Effulgence? Seriously? Effulgence? Why you gotta always make me learn all these new words, Becca? My life is already complicated enough. Chill out with the effulgence. I thought we were friends.
I know I’m dumb. I’m from here. You would be dumb too if you grew up here.
Great story! Fantastic start, fantastic finish.
Hope you and yours are happy and well.
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Words, Thomas. You use 'em or lose 'em.
Thank you for your kind words, and I hope you and your own are content, including that crazy dog of yours.
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Never worry about my little dog Margot. She was hit by a bus today. She was fine. The bus was wrecked.
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Well, that was a fine waste of tax payer's money.
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We spend like three trillion a year on our “defense” budget. We can spare a bus or two. Also, Margot ate one of the bus tires so I didn’t have to feed her dinner.
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I knew this would be good from the first sentences. Literary, simple, clean.
All of your writing is so you, your voice we could possibly pick from a crowd. It's so good at this, I'm glad you write and share it here. :)
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Thank you, Kelsey. I really appreciate your words. It is difficult, isn't it, to keep knocking out a weekly story without a few kind comments along the way?
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Hahahaha! Incredible! I love the bite in this. It's just sad that Lexi would prefer Daisy dead then just let her be. Incredible work!
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Thanks, Alexis. I have a bit of a beef with competitive parenting!
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Glorious storytelling--every set-up and pay-off is masterfully satisfying, every foil is an illustrative complement, every character is as dynamic as they are grounded. If it sounds like I'm fawning, I am, but you deserve it. This is such a straightforward, sharp, well-contained little tale, with a bold final image and not a single loose end. Well done!
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Thank you, Keba. I, in turn, am often in thrall of your incredible gift for analysis.
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Another masterful telling.
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Thanks, Mary.
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Hi Rebecca,
Wow! This story blew it out of the park, the ending line, awesome! It really hit hard. Would you check out my story I posted called Success was the Failure? I was wondering if I could get some feedback on it from great authors like you if you had the chance!
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Thanks, Emmaline. I'll get on to that as soon as.
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