MOTHER’S DAY

‘Are you sure this is necessary, dear? I don’t expect anything posh, what with all this pandemic stuff going on.’

‘Mum, I told you I’d take you out for Mother’s Day.’ John said, lifting her slight frame over the three-foot-tall garden fence surrounding the house with ease and standing her on the lawn.

‘But why do we have to wear balaclavas? Is it one of those trendy-themed places like in London? I saw one on The One Show that they’d done to look like a real priso-’

‘NO, MUM… just be quiet… The masks keep us warm and we won’t catch the virus through our noses.’

‘Flowers would have been lovel-’

‘MY TREAT… Mum!” John barked before regaining control. ‘You just relax and enjoy. Warm, aren’t they?”

Pamela smacked her lips, swallowing pea-sized beads of sweat, and nodded nervously.

It was easy enough to get in. The garden patio doors were wide open, six plastic shopping bags still slumped in pairs, leaning against one another just outside. The wife came stomping out and froze, almost went down when she saw the uninvited masked visitors and a heel caught in a groove in the decking. John had her down as 50, blonde hair in a bob, a little overweight, floral dress. Her mouth fell open. It was like something from a sketch show: John Ravenscroft, 6”6, shoulders like a bike rack, flanked by Pamela Ravenscroft, 93, sharp of mind for her age, but barely five-feet tall, slightly hunched, in a long, beige, big buttoned coat, white fleece hair rolling out from the bottom of the balaclava.

 ‘Can… I… help you?’ She squealed. Pamela started to gesture but John shut her down.

  ‘Mum, shush! I told you, I’m sorting this.’ He hissed.

   ‘Martin! MARTIN!’ The wife cried out in panic.

‘Alice, I told you, I can’t hear you from in here! Will you ju-’

Martin ground to a halt as he stepped out. The stunned expression on his wife’s face spread to his; a cynical plug hole lost in a yawning red sink of a head. John could see from their puddle-like figures and the size of the house that they had things too good. As he predicted, neither considered the possibility that he could be unarmed and harmless. A black mask is enough to bring most people to a state of terminal bewilderment. They’ve seen too many depicted in heist movies and on local news reports. He’d gone down to the Co-op after his old mum had called him. She was hungry, dirty, and distressed because nobody thought of anyone else at the first sign of want. So he had picked the first panic buyers he saw and followed them to their home to teach a lesson.

‘T-t-take the laptops, h-honestly. Our CCTV is only a d-d-dummy and there’s cash in t’- Martin spluttered.

‘Just get inside.’ John did not shout but issued the command with brooding ferocity and angular movements of his limbs.

‘John, I’-

‘Mum! What did I say about names? You’re not allowed to use our names in here! Jesus CHRIST! THINK!’

‘Please, don’t hurt us. We’re good people!’ Alice whimpered as her husband begged. John smirked.

‘Is that right?’ He asked, mock surprise in his voice. ‘Mum, tell Martin and Alice here what you had for dinner last night. Listen… wait- ready? You’ll like this…’ He winked, patronisingly.

‘Well… they don’t need to kn’- Pamela tried to counter, embarrassed in front of strangers.

‘Tell them, please, for me.’ John insisted, eyes closed, placing his giant hands on his mother’s shoulders. Two sad lemons peered out of his mum’s mask’s eye holes.

‘A plate of tinned butter beans.’ She said, quietly.

‘Either of you care to take a guess why a 93-year-old lady who lived through a war was forced to eat like it never ended, despite no food shortages whatsoever?’ Martin started to try and cough up a garbled excuse, but John motioned towards the six bags of shopping on the patio. Three packs of twelve loo rolls were placed around them. The news had reported widespread shortages of the stuff thanks to people buying in bulk, for no good reason.

‘We don’t know what’s going to hap-’

‘It’s a fucking respiratory virus! It’s you self-serving, entitled pricks, not the pandemic that are causing shortages! My mum, who’d do anything for anyone had to wash her arse in the bath because there wasn’t a sheet of toilet paper in sight!’

They looked at the floor like naughty school children banged to rights.

“Did you even think about the nurses on 48-hour shifts who might need to eat after work? The elderly and sick? The poor?”

They stared blankly and said nothing.

‘Sit down.’ He ordered. The couple did not move, just did as told, and sat on two skinny, red plastic designer bar stools. They still had their coats on.

John furiously emptied every bag onto the kitchen floor. Eggs broke. Bottles smashed. His Mum tried to assure the couple that he gets like this and it’ll be OK when he’s settled.

‘Any kids?’ He barked.

‘Us? Erm… No.’ Replied Alice, biting her nails, voice wavering.

‘So why the panic buying?’

 ‘Everyone else is. We didn’t want t-’

 ‘Starve?’ John cut Martin off. ‘Trust me, that fat knacker will keep you going for weeks if it comes to cannibalism. I’m sure you’ve got the freezer space.’ He jabbed an angry finger at Martin, who looked hurt. A flash of anger passed across his face, but fear killed it when John feigned going for a non-existent weapon under his belt.

‘Nappies? I thought you said no kids?’

‘My brother has two.’ Alice said, raising her hands in defence. John reared up and began pelting them at her, one by one.

‘JOHNATHAN!’ Snapped his mother, now bolt upright. He dropped the nappy to the floor and looked around all three faces, suddenly brought to heel.

Pamela took the sting out of the tail; she told stories about wartime, what it was like as a 12-year-old girl trying to understand what it meant when they heard ominous, bleak radio broadcasts about invasions and shared single food items around malnourished families. Jonathan stood in the corner and made lots of toast for the two of them, inspecting the labels of expensive-looking jams he did not recognise.

‘Got any marmalade?’ He mumbled, still reeling from Mum’s use of his full name. Martin shook his head.

‘All this food and you don’t… fuck’s sake. Basics.’

‘Language, dear.’ Said his mother, now in control. At the back of one of the space-grey state-of-the-art cupboards was a dusty can of kidney beans in water, surrounded by all kinds of global foods. Pecan nuts, jalapeno peppers, coconut amino. John made Alice drink the strange, soapy water and eat the kidney beans that swam in it. Martin was then forced to crunch through hard, dry spaghetti. Pamela, her balaclava still in place, seemingly oblivious of her son’s behaviour, was deep into her tales of candle-light sing-alongs during the blitz and communal toilets used by everyone on the street she grew up on as they gagged back rising vomit, eyes filling with tears.

John palmed their cakes and biscuits into his face, fed generous slices to his mother, and poured red wine.

‘This is alright, isn’t it, Mum? Told you I’d take you out, didn’t I? Better than staying in. Enjoying yourself?’ She nodded. John went to the bathroom.

‘Is it true about you eating butter beans and… washing in the bath as he said?” Asked Martin, a note of shame in his voice. He dry-coughed, his throat in shock from brittle fusilli.  

‘Yes, love. I can’t walk very far these days and John had no reception on his phone. My neighbours have families of their own so didn’t need me bothering them. With this virus and all the panic, I couldn’t get through to anyone who could help and my local shop… well… I think you know what that’s like, don’t you? There was hardly anything left on the shelves.’ Alice put her head in her hands, embarrassed. She began a desperate attempt to distract Pamela with more questions, trying to outrun her guilt. But it was on her.

‘I may be frail, my dear, but please don’t insult my intelligence. These cogs still turn well enough. If people had behaved like you back in the war, stealing all the rations, you wouldn’t be here in such comfort today. Maybe one day you’ll know real hardship.’

John ate all he could fit in and made sure his mother was contentedly full. He bagged any items which had been bought in excess. ‘You two will take these down to the food bank later today. I will know if you haven’t done it. I volunteer there. If you call the police about this, or I see you panic buying again, you’ll have more to worry about than running out of bread, hear me?’ He began to back towards the door, not taking his eyes from the shaken couple. He rested a hand on his waist, where there never was a gun. Pamela turned to the couple, eyeing them from under her mask.

‘Thank you for your hospitality, dearies. I hope you’ll forgive my son for his tantrums. He gets awful protective of me.’ John stepped out onto the decking. Martin’s hands were clasped together in shaky gratitude, relieved to be alive. The couple turned to Pamela.

‘We’re so sorry,’ Said Alice. ‘We should’ve been more considerate. If we can ever help you, we’d love to leave you our numbers. Don’t hesitate to call.’ Martin nodded eagerly, in full agreement. A bead of sweat dribbled down his brow.

Pamela smiled.

‘Bless you. That’s more like it.’ She purred. Before Martin turned to grab a notepad, he hitched up his trouser waistband to tidy himself up. A short, angry bark of a fart ripped the kitchen air. The warmth of forgiveness on Pamela’s face iced over in a second. Something else entered the eyes beneath the balaclava. A different smile slithered into its place. This one had spines and a sting that could kill a horse.

‘Well isn’t this fortunate timing… John, sweetheart, take these. She viciously kicked the packs of loo rolls out through the patio doors, one by one. ‘It sounds like Martin needs to use the bathroom. What a pity all the loo roll has gone.’ She turned to Martin and put her hand on his shoulder. ‘Come now, in you go. I’ll wait here in case you need any help getting out of the bath.’