Words hurt sometimes

Friday, June 5 ‘09

“Could you move?” An officious headmistress-like voice boomed above the moans Spag and Bol were making from their chariot. The tone wasn’t polite, it was an order. It implied,” you are invading my space,” “you have no right to be here,” and “take those vile children away from me.”
Mrs Bennet felt like a two-year-old herself, being told off for smearing yoghurt in her hair or flicking peas at her sister. Only her sister was some 30 miles away in Bristol filming and she couldn’t flick her peas that far.
Mrs Bennet was in the local public library looking for a suitable DVD for a girly night in. Mr Bennet was flying off to Iran that afternoon until late Tuesday evening so she had invited a friend round for company. In ten minutes time Miss Kezia Bennet had an appointment with the doctors, a mere 100 yards away. But knowing they always ran late, Mrs Bennet didn’t want to get there any earlier than she needed to. With two little girls to entertain, for what could be 40 minutes in a confined space with sick people, she needed somewhere to go to kill a bit of time. Instead she was killed by words. Spag and Bol started moaning in the children’s section of the library. Note, the children’s section. The lady who came from the ilk of children shouldn’t be seen or heard, was sitting at the far end at a computer with head phones on.
Mrs Bennet had visited this library since she had been in nappies herself, some four decades ago, and had never been spoken to like this. How powerful words were. In the wrong hands they could so easily wound and pull down. Mrs Bennet felt ashamed sometimes to be part of the media. She’d been in the “press” brigade for 22 years, yet what she endeavoured to do was use words to inspire and encourage. It felt like swimming against a tide. She had been told when leaving school, “we don’t think you’re tough enough to be a journalist.” But she had no intention of being tough. You could write truthful stories without upsetting people. Not everyone thought that way. With the spoken word though, it wasn’t so much what was said, it was the way it was said. And here in the library, the three words fired at Mrs Bennet, hurt. Granted, not as much as her head which was still battling infection and feeling the side effects of antibiotics. But surprisingly it brought tears to Mrs Bennet’s eyes. And she did not cry in public. She walked away before her anger rose any higher and produced words she didn’t normally utter. But Mrs Bennet’s anger didn’t last. She was more in shock. It was the “could-you-move” lady who was angry. Angry at little children for being children and conveniently forgetting she had been one once. Apparently it hadn’t been the first time she’d told a mother off or ordered her away from the space she was working in. But in her experience, Mrs Bennet knew there was always a story behind a story. She wasn’t about to use words to cause any greater wounds. Instead she just wondered what the lady’s story was. Three words may not offer much insight into a soul, but they conveyed a deep-felt annoyance towards little people. Mrs Bennet looked affectionately at Spag and Bol, who were unaware they were victims of such wrath. Annoying as they were sometimes, these fearfully-and-wonderfully-made twins – different as day and night – were an endless source of amazement and wonder. Mrs Bennet learnt more about herself through them than any self-help book could offer. She vowed never to become an irritable old woman. She would grow old disgracefully, but she wouldn’t learn to spit or speak rude words to anyone. She’d eat the red hat covering her purple hair if she ever did.

Midwife Darcys announce: “The waters have broken!”

Friday, January 23 09

It wasn’t very often Mrs Bennet remembered the details of her dreams. But last night was such a strange cocktail of ridiculous images, she couldn’t help but recall them. Mrs Bennet had to physically shake herself to prove they couldn’t be real. She’d dreamt her own mum had given birth to twins at 64, but her father didn’t appear once. Twin granddaughters were enough, and no doubt the thought of having any more children of his own, shocked him out of the picture, probably because he knew they couldn’t possibly be his. Mind you if Mrs Bennet’s recurring dream of having twins, triplets and quads ever came true, she would most definitely be suing the NHS.
Equally as strange was a dream which quickly followed her mother’s twins - that the Bennet house was in fact pregnant, with Mr and Mrs Bennet and all five Miss Bennets tucked tightly in its belly, which of course was the lounge.
Mrs Bennet remembered only too well how it felt to have two little Bennets growing inside her, pushing her organs up so tightly she could hardly breathe. At one point she feared her ribs would break. It was like being a human “Stretch Armstrong,” a super rubbery childhood doll which would stretch when you pulled its arms and legs – only all its faculties went back to where they should afterwards. Mrs Bennet’s stomach would never be the same. She realised that the house dream was really about space. Crammed inside a lounge, the Bennet babies were head down and ready to come out.
Ironically an hour after waking up, the Darcys in the Dirt announced that they would be breaking through that very morning. Now the scaffolding had disappeared, they needed access to upstairs which meant the inevitable. Armed with saws, they marched upstairs. Mrs Bennet couldn’t resist sharing her unusual dream with them.
“Today’s the day then. This is the exciting part. The waters have broken!” declared one of them.
Too right the labour pains were starting. Mrs Bennet had the urge to push – push the front door and escape and leave the midwives to it. Yet, they were right. This was exciting. Soon the birth of bite-size Pemberley would be over and the space she so yearned for would be deliciously hers.

Wages in double portion

Monday, November 24 08

Mrs Bennet no longer required a television for entertainment purposes. She could quite happily live without it. Mr Bennet couldn’t. A certain ball kicked by a certain team meant it still had its uses – that, and taping certain children’s programmes for certain emergency calming-down moments.
Miss Bennets Four and Five deserved glowing reviews for their Oscar-winning dramas and comedies. They obediently sat in their feeding chairs with little rose-bud mouths opening in bird-like fashion as spaghetti came their way, scooping pasta worms as Mother bird gave them her morning’s work. Armed with a spoon, they relished the freedom of attacking yoghurt pots, giving a running commentary as they did so. Then suddenly, without warning they swapped pots and carried on eating. Mrs Bennet was intrigued. This habit had become intrinsic to meal times. If she gave them each a bowl containing a medley of bananas, raisins, apples, breadsticks and cheese, they’d cheerfully tuck in, then after five minutes, push their bowl at the other and finish their sister’s meal.
If Miss Kezia Bennet wanted to really upset her twin, she would crawl off with Rosie’s reassured, well-worn and well-cuddled rabbit. She’d then poke it through the playpen bars and tilt her head as if to say: “na,na,na,na,na!” But Miss Rosie Bennet had her ammunition ready. She’d find Kezia’s soothing tool – the dummy – wave it, chew it, then run off with it, leaving Kezia pursuing her bigger and stronger sister. It made fantastic viewing and their interludes were equally as comical to listen to, such as now.
Mrs Bennet was perched on the stair’s bottom step, listening to their animated babbling. For the past hour, instead of dozing for an afternoon nap, each peered at the other through cot bars, nodding heads and waving arms as if to explain their point. Mrs Bennet knew this as she peeped through the tiny gap where the door was slightly ajar.
Feeling excluded from this intimacy and secret language, she smiled and left them to their conversation, knowing eventually they’d run out of talk and fall asleep – bottoms in the air, limbs hanging out of each cot. It was moments like these when parenting wages were bountiful for Mrs Bennet. They were indeed her double portion.