BECKY’S MOTHER’S DAY

Her friend’s son may have forgotten to treat his mom, but Joy was determined to show her she was appreciated

THE pub was jammed with young people, the noise loud enough even without music to cause hearing damage, I was sure. “Are you all right, Becky?” I shouted as the three of us threaded single file through the crowd, my son, James, in the lead. Becky’s hesitant smile was hardly reassuring.

It was my idea, a Mother’s Day treat for my neighbour and best friend. I wanted Becky to have a memorable evening – fingers crossed she would. Her day hadn’t been much fun so far, as I’d discovered when I’d gone across earlier with her pudding dish.

A black van was parked in her driveway and a voice had hailed me from the passenger window. “Tell Matt to hurry up, will you, Mrs Clarkson? We’ll be late for our gig if he doesn’t move it.”

“Right Sean, I will.” I’d given him a cheery wave, still a bit high on the way my Mother’s Day had gone.

“Becky, it’s me.” I knocked then opened the house’s side door. Anyone who’d lend her grandmother’s crystal pudding dish had to be a good friend. “And Sean says for Matt to move it.”

Becky’s shout of “Matt!” up the stairs was immediately followed by the thunderous descent of size 12 takkies. Matt swept into the kitchen then, his guitar slung across his back. “I’m off.” “Have fun,” Becky said. “Go on Matt, give your mom a goodbye hug.”

Matt pulled a face as if I’d suggested he hug a porcupine. “I take it then you won’t,” I said, with Becky wryly smiling in the background.

Matt was like my James. To give me a hug, to express his affection – it was as though he were committing a mortal sin. What was it with older boys? The ones who it seemed only a few years ago had thrown their arms about your neck and hugged you fiercely. Did they consider it an embarrassment now, weak and unmanly? Or were they afraid of letting their moms know they still held this sway over their sons? “Well, anyway, knock ’em dead,” I said. “We’ll try.” And he banged out the door, leaving me a bit breathless.

I returned Becky’s dish to its place on her sideboard. “Thanks, Beck. And I must tell you I’ve had a marvellous Mother’s Day. Treated to buffet lunch at The Griffin.

A family stroll along the beach. Finally home for tea and my daughter Shirley’s lovely trifle served in your pudding dish.”

I caught myself, realising I’d been babbling as I tend to do when excited. Becky was putting on the kettle, listening to my news.

I took teacups from the cupboard. “How was your Mother’s Day? Matt treated you in Carl’s absence, no doubt?”

Surely Matt did, I thought, especially with Carl working away. Not in a sentimental, soppy way, not hugs and kisses. But with lunch – the local fish-and-chip shop would do – a small gift, a box of chocolates at least. The gift or chocolates slid casually, perhaps, onto the kitchen table as James had done. “There you go, Mom.”

Becky shrugged a shoulder, occupied with making tea. “Matt’s been busy rehearsing. The band’s had several bookings of late.”

“Beck, he didn’t treat you?” Here I’d been boasting about my day and Becky had been overlooked.

Becky’s smile was decidedly lopsided. “He simply forgot what day it was, Joy, and Carl wasn’t here to remind him. It’s no great upset.”

Yes it was, I thought. One day a year for moms to be recognised wasn’t too much to ask. And Becky was one of the better ones. Allowing the band to practise at the house, encouraging it really, though the thump of those drums sometimes rattled even my windows. And she fed them. Pizzas, lasagnes, homemade biscuits and cakes. I knew the damage one teen could do to food supplies and imagined four of them as a plague of locusts.

“Perhaps we’ll do something once Carl comes home.” Becky shrugged again as she poured boiling water into the pot.

If they’d forgotten today, why would they remember later on? “I don’t need anything special.” Well, to be honest, she did. Everyone likes to be reminded they’re loved and appreciated. No one wants to be taken for granted.

“The day isn’t over, Beck. Let’s go out.” I knew just the thing, I thought. At least I hoped I did. “Joy, it’s not important.” “I’ll feel so guilty I’ve had such a marvellous day and you’ve missed out. Do you want me going round burdened with guilt?”

That swayed her because she laughed. “Oh, all right.” “James will drive us.” “James?” “As long as we don’t sit with him and ruin his chances as a chick magnet, he’ll agree.”

JAMES finally found us a table in one of the pub’s darker corners. He seated Beck and me and then sauntered over to the bar, actually dusting off his hands, disowning us for the rest of the evening. I had to laugh.

Becky and I ordered beers and slowly sipped as we took in the sights: the outfits, the tattoos, the make-up. The atmosphere of the place was energetic and enthusiastic though, and it made me feel that young again. I glanced at Becky. She’d caught the mood as well, it seemed, her smile more relaxed and genuine now.

Matt and his band began setting up on stage just then. I winced as Bert hammered his drums into place and then set up four huge speakers.

Becky gripped my arm while at the same time shrinking into the shadows. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I thought to surprise you, Beck.” Although she should have suspected, I felt, that the band played for real in front of a live audience. “All those pizzas paying off.”

The music although loud was rather good. Matt had an interesting deep-throated singing voice and I understood most of the words. Unlike that hiphop and rap. I tapped my foot to the beat. Becky’s hand was sounding counterpoint on the table, I was pleased to see. On the dancefloor couples lithely moved to the music.

“I enjoyed that, Joy,” Becky shouted at the end of the band’s set, the final chords still ringing in my ears. “It’s getting late though. Will we be off?”

I vigorously shook my head and waved her to sit back down. It was important we stayed. “Not yet!”

Matt stepped up to the microphone once again and waited until he had the crowd’s attention. “In closing I’d like to say thanks. First to the management for giving us this opportunity, next to the audience for your great applause and finally to the one person who’s helped make all this possible – my mom.”

James had told me Matt thanked his mom at the end of every performance. He’d be pumped on adrenaline then and as his mom was nowhere near to hear his praise there would be no embarrassment. But what good did that do Becky? Unless Matt hoped his mom would hear about it second-hand. Or that his thanks would wing their way through the ether by way of heaven.

“Your mom’s here tonight, Matt!” I shouted without thinking, pumped myself. I turned to Becky and saw her face had gone white with shock. Was she worried her presence would embarrass Matt? That he’d rather she remain anonymous? Matt himself looked a bit stunned. What have I done? I thought.

But then Bert began rapping his drum with his drumstick and with each rap he called out, “Mom!” The cry spread, taken up by one young person and then another until the whole room rang with it. “Mom, Mom, Mom!” Feet stamped and hands slammed tables.

These kids weren’t only celebrating Matt’s mom but their own moms as well, I felt, and wished I’d brought my cellphone to take a video so the other moms would know. Even James was shouting, “Mom!” and he raised his glass in my direction.

“Stand up, Mom,” Matt called out to Becky. She had to know how proud of her Matt was and that his thanks had been genuine

“Stand up, Beck,” I encouraged. “Give them a royal wave.”

So she did, her eyes brimming with tears, her face so flushed even the tip of her nose shone bright burgundy. Thunderous applause, punctuated by shrill whistles, set the beer in our glasses trembling as though from a seismic quake.

I leaned across as Becky sat back down and handed her a napkin. “Happy Mother’s Day, Becky,” I wished her. A day she’d not soon forget, I thought.

‘One day a year for moms to be recognised wasn’t too much to ask’