No-Nag Saturday
by Emily Gale
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“Feet off the table, Sam.”
“Take your cap off, Sam.”
“Sam, finish your toast.”
“Have you tidied your room yet?”
I don’t know about you, but there’s nothing I like better after a hard week at school than to sit down in front of the telly on a Saturday morning and eat peanut butter on toast while Mum thinks of fifty-seven things I’ve done wrong, or haven’t done yet, or must do, or must not do. It’s really relaxing, and no that’s not my blood pressure rising every time she opens her mouth, you must be mistaken. Annoyed? Me? Nah, I could listen to this all day, which is lucky because that’s exactly how long it’s going to last.
“Make sure your homework is done before we have to visit Nan.”
Fifty-four.
“Take your plate out to the kitchen and don’t just leave it on the side, put it in the dishwasher.”
Fifty-five and fifty-six combined.
“Oh Sam, don’t scrape the plate with your knife, you know I can’t stand it!”
And there we have it, fifty-seven. And it’s only half past nine. Record.
Don’t get me wrong, my mum’s great – she thinks I don’t know how hard it’s been since Dad went away but I do know. It’s just that I have a habit of getting her goat, as she calls it, and she has a nasty habit of telling me about her goat getting got every hour of the day, except when I’m at school and she gets a break while I get the teachers’ goats instead. I think I’ll stop talking about goats now.
When Dad lived with us, Mum shared the nagging between us but now I’ve got the whole load. My dad has been away on business for a while. Two years in actual fact. If that seems to you like a long time to be away on business, you won’t be very surprised to hear that he’s really in prison. I’m not supposed to know that, but there were a few clues. Clue number one: Dad used to own a shop – he sold furniture, nice stuff – now it’s a Pret a Manger. Clue number two: Dad calls us every Wednesday evening for exactly five minutes, and Mum always goes upstairs for a cry afterwards. Clue number three: Every Sunday Mum says she’s going off for her weekly manicure. Four hours later she comes home and it doesn’t take a genius to work out that she’s just painted her own nails with something called ‘Rose Blush’ that she keeps in her handbag. And she’s always got red eyes afterwards too, like she’s been crying. Do manicures hurt? I don’t think so.
On Saturdays we always go and see my Nan. She lives in sheltered housing now because her arthritis got so bad she couldn’t look after herself, and even though Mum said she could come and live with us, Nan said she’d rather not. This Saturday, Nan was her usual self. She’s very, what’s the word? Proper. When we came into her room she said:
“Hello, Samuel dear. Oh Pamela, don’t put your hair behind your ears.”
And when we were having tea she said:
“ Samuel, do have a biscuit. Pamela, you’d better not.”
Mum looked deep down into her teacup after that. And when we were leaving Nan said:
“Thanks so much for coming, Samuel dear. Pamela, do remember my magazine next time will you?”
Nan’s a gem, but on Saturday evenings Mum always looks like she’s just done ten rounds with Manny Pacquiao.
What with Dad ‘away’ it’s not as though I can’t see why Mum would be stressed out, but something has to change. And it will – because I’ve had an idea. I’m petitioning Mum for ‘No-Nag Saturday’.
“Muuuuuuuuum!’ I shout up the stairs because Mum’s got the hairdryer on. “Muuuuuuuuuuuuuuum!” The hairdryer stops.
‘Sam, don’t shout,” says Mum.
‘Okay, but come downstairs, I’ve got a propo— er, a deal for you.” Mum comes downstairs with a pile of laundry and while she loads the machine I tell her about No-Nag Saturday. The deal is this: Mum’s not allowed to nag me about anything on Saturday, and in return I have to try not to go anywhere near her goat. Any nagging means a quid in her pot. Any goat-getting means a quid in my pot. And whoever puts in the least coins gets to keep the whole lot.
“What do you think?” I ask Mum. Mum wrinkles her nose. “What, you think you can’t do it?” I say.
“Of course I can do it. Anyway, I’m not a nag. Don’t be so cheeky, and take that cap off when you’re indoors.”
“Come on, Mum, take the challenge. You know you want to.” I show her my petition for No-Nag Saturday, which has been signed by myself, my mate Tim, Nan, Mrs Gregg next door, and Jake (our cat). Mum shouts at me for telling Mrs Gregg that she nags. Then the phone rings. It’s Tesco telling Mum her online shopping is stuck in traffic. Here’s my chance.
“Please, Mum, please,” I say, holding a contract for her to sign and a pen right in front of her face.
“I appreciate that, but I booked the slot for late afternoon so I’d have the food for teatime. What do you expect me to do now?”
“Muuuum, just sign,” I say, waving the paper.
“ So when will it be here?”
“Sign, sign, sign,” I whisper. Mum signs.
‘Well thanks for nothing,” she says, and slams down the phone. Got her.
Saturday comes. Mum gets me on a technicality even before my alarm has gone off when she walks into my room and trips over one of my trainers. She doesn’t say a word, just looks at me. A quid in my pot. But from then on I’m on top form. We watch telly together and I keep my feet on the floor, crumbs off the sofa and my cap just next to me. I take my plate out without being asked. And just to really up the stakes, I take my bag up to my room to start my homework as soon as Ministry of Mayhem has finished. Mum’s so quiet I’ve almost forgotten the sound of her voice. Surely it can’t last.
It doesn’t. I’m in my room, drawing a picture of a football boot on my physics homework. Mum comes in to get the laundry.
“Sit up straight, Sammy.” Ha! A quid in her pot. After that they come in one by one. I get nagged to bring my sheets down (done it) / tidy away the Nintendo (done it) / clean my teeth (done it) / feed the cat (done it). Mum’s just not doing her research and I’m one step ahead of her all day. By four o’clock her pot is full of coins, and I’m only down three quid.
“Right,” she says. “It appears you’ve done quite well today.” I look at her with my head on one side, and the corner of her mouth starts to twitch until it’s a great big grin.
“Okay, okay, Sammy Smart-pants.” I wish she wouldn’t call me that. “You win. I might possibly have a tendency to nag.”
She takes her pot, makes my hand into a cup shape and pours in the money. “Go on, buy yourself something nice,” she says. “Not sweets.”
“Mum.” I give her another one of my looks.
“Look, I promise to try very hard not to nag you on Saturdays, if you promise not to let your gorgeous teeth rot.
” ‘Only on Saturdays?” I say, clutching my coins and pushing my luck about as far as it will go.
“One step at a time, Sam.”
We drive off to Nan’s, and on the way Mum stops outside Boots so I can run in and spend my hard-earned cash on some new hair wax that Tim showed me the other day. If Mum inherited her nagging from Nan, I inherited my curly hair from Dad and I’m always on the look-out for stuff to make it look less, well, big.
“Got what you wanted?” says Mum.
“Yep,” I say.
“Don’t say yep, darling.” Mum winks with her left eye and smiles as she looks at the road ahead.
Nan is on top form and Mum gets a real pasting for not remembering the magazine again. Not only that – Mum’s lipstick is too loud, her hem is too high, her hair is behind her ears again and she puts too much sugar in Nan’s tea. I try to catch Mum’s eye and give her a smile. She sort of smiles back. The afternoon makes me wonder if Nan’s mum nagged her, and if Nan’s mum’s mum nagged her, and what else we inherit apart from curly hair and nagging. There’s a lot to think about which is good because Nan and Mum talk about people I’ve never heard of for ages.
The next day, Mum gets ready to go out for her ‘manicure’.
“Mum, I got you something,” I say, handing her a small Boots plastic bag. She pulls out the bottle of Rose Blush nail polish.
“Oh, Sam, I . . .” She doesn’t know what to say. “I know you like it.” Mum puts on her coat and opens the front door.
“I’ll be back after my—”
“Manicure. I know, Mum,” I say. She steps outside and turns to go. I really want to say, “Say hi to Dad.” But I don’t because I know Mum still doesn’t want me to know. So I just say, “Have a nice time.” And off she goes.
©2005 Emily Gale
em@emilygale.co.uk