83. Mums

I am driving home feeling relaxed after an afternoon spent rowing along the waterways of the area. As I reach the main square I take a glimpse at the terrasses that line the otherwise sad square. People are sitting under huge colourful umbrellas sipping drinks and watching the world slowly go by.

I feel so good I am sure I am smiling to myself. 

But suddenly I catch a glimpse of something.  Surely not. I turn my head to look and ... OH MY WORD! ... WHAT ON EARTH? ... 

I jump on the breaks and literally come to a stop there in the middle of the square. It is very hot and people are impatient. A car starts to beep its horn furiously. So I have no choice but to start the car again. 

'Look!' I said to my youngest child who is in the back. 

'Look! Quick! Look to your right! ...' And then I yell.

'QUICK!'

But obviously my youngest is slow. I know why she is so slow. It is because she does not care. Which annoys me because, clearly, my tone of voice and the volume at which I speak would get anyone worried.

'There! There! In the red tee-shirt. Is that ... is that ...' I cannot speak due to profound shock. I make a huge effort and I say:

'Is that your ... brother?'

That makes her perk up a bit.

'Oh yes! It's him! What is he doing?'

The fact that at least one of my children is still innocent fills me with deep joy. So I calm down and I stop yelling. I ask with the sweetest of tones.

'Can you see what he is drinking?'

I can see her leaning into the window and craning her neck to see. But by now it is too late.

'It's OK. I'll drive around the square again. You look this time, ok?'

'All right!' She says. 

I am not that bad a mum, I do have a slight hesitation. A little voice in my head is telling me to leave the poor lad alone. However I quickly get back to my senses and drive round, queuing up with all the cars and slowing right down when I get near to the café.

'I can't see his drink, Mum. He's got his back on us.'

So I beep my horn. Three times, short and sharp, BEEP-BEEP-BEEP.

Every single person on that terrasse turns towards my car. Every single person except my son! I can definitely see him now and there is no doubt it is him. But it is impossible to see what he is drinking.

'Is he drinking beer?' I ask my youngest child, realising as I say it that she has to say good bye to innocence on the spot. Never mind. It is high time anyway. 

'No, it doesn't look like beer. But it is him.' She says. I cannot read her tone, it just sounds simply matter-of-fact.

We live close to the square and so we are not far from home. I have little time to think about what procedure to adopt. I completely ignore the voice in the back of my head telling me I must be the worse kind of helicopter-mum.

We get home and I go straight to the fridge. As he did not want to join us on our boat trip (now I know why) I had asked him to go to the butcher's to get sausages for the barbecue. I am expecting to find the sausages sitting in the fridge. And I am thinking OK he has been to the butcher's and then, as it was so hot, he has gone for an - innocent - drink with his friends. But there are no sausages in the fridge!! Not a single sausage in sight! I have to come to the conclusion that my son has been in a bar drinking all afternoon instead of running errands for his mother!

Right. That's it. I pick up my phone to speak to him, we need to have a mother-to-son conversation. Of course, he does not answer. So I text.

'Where are the sausages?' And I add a fuming little emoji to make my point. The red one with steam coming out of her nostrils. He'll recognise the mood his mother is in and will reply instantly. 

'On my way to get them!' I smile. It worked.

I look at my watch to time him. The butcher's shop is half-way between the bar and our home. 

Eventually, he comes in. I am not sure how to subtly approach the subject so I just blurt out:

'I saw you in the bar! What were you doing?'

'Well, I was having a drink!' He sounds happy as Larry, does not even think he had his mother in bouts of anxiety.

I look at him, straight into the eyes.

'Yes! Obviously. But tell me, was it beer you were drinking?'

'Mum! Honestly, I know I'm underage! Do you think I am going to risk it?' And he adds. 'Last thing I want is for my mother to rock up there to speak to the bartender. I'm not that crazy.' He looks at me. 'Relax Mum! Take a chill pill! ... Oh and my friends are coming. We are going to barbecue the sausages.'

And suddenly the garden is full of starving teenage boys.

I close the patio door on them and pour myself a stiff drink.