The Displaced Nation

To mother-in-law’s to watch the Royal Wedding. Julia down the road organised a street party and I would have preferred to go to that, but Sandra (that’s Oliver’s mum) threw a sulk, so of course, that was our day off arranged for us.

“You let her get away with too much,” I told Oliver on the way there, but he took no notice. Oliver always replies that he hopes Jack will look after me the same way when I’m a bit older, which is no comfort at all. The reason Oliver has to pander to her is because her husband ran off with a librarian when Oliver was five. I wonder how she’ll manage without him when we’ve gone to America.

“Now, be careful what you say,” Oliver said. “Don’t let anything slip. I need to pick the right moment to tell her.”

You see, he hasn’t told her we’re going yet. The reason he agreed to go to Boston is because HR assured him it was only for two years. I want to tell my mum about this move – imminent now, assuming we get our visas – but we have to tell The Mums at the same time, otherwise each mother will claim the other got preferential treatment.

“Some sherry?” Sandra asked, as soon as we walked through the door. She was wearing jeans and a red and white striped sweater, and had tied her hair back in Union Jack ribbons.

Sherry is disgusting enough before dinner, never mind before elevenses while viewing Sandra’s idea of patriotic dress. “I’d prefer black coffee,” I said.

She looked at me as if I’d asked for a glass of snake bile, but shimmied across the kitchen and filled the kettle. “And how’s my favourite little boy?” she cooed at Jack. “What would Union Jack like? A nice glass of Pepsi and some chocolate?”

Honestly. I don’t know why she doesn’t go the whole hog and give him the sherry.

“Apple juice?” I suggested. “Cheese? Some sliced banana?”

“It’s a party,” she insisted, and gave Jack two chocolate biscuits, one for each hand.

I shrugged. His clothes would easily wash, and he’d eventually come down from the sugar high. Her cream curtains, on the other hand, looked more fragile.

A few more people — some of Sandra’s dodgy friends — shuffled into the house, and soon everyone was sitting around the TV. Jack sat on his granny’s lap, and I was satisfied to note a couple of small chocolaty handprints on the back of her shoulder where she couldn’t see them.

“I made something to bring today,” I said to the room in general, “but the dog ate it.”

“What was it?” Sandra asked.

“Some chocolate and biscuit recipe I got off the internet.”

A woman sitting at the far end of the sofa let out a croaky gasp. “Chocolate? You fed the dog chocolate? Chocolate kills dogs!”

Fergus ate that stuff two days ago, and early this morning had been out terrorising Yorkshire terriers, so I didn’t think it was that fatal.

“It all depends on the dog, I suppose,” Sandra said, glancing shiftily at the woman. “Would you look at the hat Princess Beatrice is wearing! It looks like a TV aerial.”

“I gave you that particular dog in good faith, for your birthday,” the woman wheezed, ignoring the contraption on Princess Bea’s head. “You never said you were going to give it away to someone who feeds it chocolate.”

Oliver and I looked at each other. Our first wedding anniversary present from his mother had been a regifted dog?

“What is it with these hats?” Sandra plowed on. “None of them on top. All stuck to foreheads. They should be more like Samantha Cameron and not wear them at all if they can’t wear them properly.”

Jack waddled up to his granny, waving his plastic cup. “Juice?” he said hopefully. “Juice?”

“Of course you can have juice, my love.” Sandra took him by the hand and led him into the kitchen, evidently glad of the distraction. I heard her sloshing liquid into his cup, and he came back with apple juice. Thank goodness.

“People like you shouldn’t be allowed to keep dogs,” Sandra’s friend hissed at me. She wasn’t distracted by requests for apple juice.

“It was an accident,” I whispered back. Not sure why I was whispering. I wasn’t inside Westminster Abbey, after all. “And we didn’t want the bloody dog anyway!” My voice rose a bit. “Frankly, I’ll be glad when it’s gone!”

Sandra came back in the room. “Gone? Who’s gone?”

Oliver cleared his throat. “The Queen looks nice in yellow, doesn’t she, Mum?”

Jack handed me his half-full cup. I absent-mindedly took a sip, coughed, and stared in disbelief at Sandra. “Red Bull? You gave our son Red Bull?”

Sandra wriggled. “The Pepsi was all gone,” she whined.

“I don’t believe you did that. I’m starting to have second thoughts about Ferg—”

Oliver stood up. “Right, that’s it. Jack’s not having anything else to eat here, and Fergus is going nowhere. Our dog might steal chocolate, but at least we’ve never knowingly fed our son Red Bull. Come on, Libby.”

“But we haven’t even seen Kate arrive yet!”

“Our TV’s perfectly good. Come on.”

*

“It quite turns me on when you get all masterful like that,” I said to Oliver in the car.

“Yes, well,” he said. “I had to stop you telling her about America somehow, didn’t I?”

It’s my own fault for going along with my mother’s suggestion of keeping ‘Obey’ in our wedding service, I suppose.

I notice Kate Middleton didn’t. Sensible girl.

LIBBY’S LIFE #6: An Interlude in London

LIBBY’S LIFE #4: How a dog’s life can really get up your nose

Click here to read Libby’s Life from the first episode

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Image: Travel – Map of the World by Salvatore Vuono / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

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