Carol’s Column

Tall, dark and handsome

THERE was a stranger sitting in the lounge. Tall, dark and handsome, he looked familiar.

I smiled, forgetting I'd left my upper bridge with the molars, floating in the plastic tooth mug on the mantelpiece in the diningroom.

I realised my mistake when the air whistled through the gap freezing my uvula on the downstroke.

"Do I know you? Have we met before? Perhaps you're the dog licence man?"

He looked at me as if I was mad.

"Ma, don't you recognise me? It's me, your son Barry."

Good heavens, I adjusted my left contact lens and looked again.

I didn't recognise the face but I'd know my blue cheese-cloth shirt with the floral embroidery, anywhere.

Not to mention the Turkish worry beads stretched tight around his Adam's apple.

It was the hair that was different. For the first time in 14 years — it was brushed.

A cashmere jersey was flung casually over his arm. A cashmere jersey? Bought at Marks and Sparks in his pre-marriage days in 1964 — it was my husband's most valued possession other than his fleece-lined sleep suit.

I was speechless.

"Does your father know you've got his jersey? Where are you going? Why are you dressed up? Aren't you and Kean getting together tonight? What's the matter?"

Thank heavens the molars were on the mantelpiece. I'd have swallowed them by mistake. Barry smiled down at me.

"Ma — there's a hop down the road. Ken and I thought we'd go along for a while, Dad said it was fine."

"Hop, with what are you going to hop?"

"Girls."

I shut my eyes in horror. Was this my little son of the dimples and Matchbox cars?

Who got his first little tooth at four months, crawled at five and walked at a year?

Just then, the doorbell rang. There stood Kean, 1,93m tall and 13 years old.

Both boys towered above me. What do you say to your son about to embark on his first social outing?

Have you cleaned your nails? Stand straight? Don't go outside if you're hot you might catch a cold? Don't stay too near the record player, you can damage your eardrums. Make sure you have something to eat — you had no supper.

"Bye boys," I smiled. "Have a good time." I shut the door and flew to the study where my spouse was engrossed in his sleep.

I shook him awake.

"Barry's gone to a dance. A dance! With girls! Do something."

My husband focused slowly. "So what. Who do you want him to dance with? Boys?"

"But he's a child, a little boy."

My husband reopened his eyes. Child? "He wears size 10 shoes, he shaves, his voice is deeper than mine — are we talking about the same person?

"You're behaving like an overprotective mother. Leave the kid alone. What do you want him to do? Play cops and robbers in the garden?"

I was appalled at his insensitivity.

He glared at me over his sleep-bagged eyes.

"Relax. Don't you remember when you were young? The fun and the excitement of your first date?"

"Yes, I was 24 years old."

My spouse looked at me. "The trouble with you," he said, "is that you have no sense of humour."

I did remember my first date. Every schoolgirl's dream, he played rugby for the Under-15 A. I'd nearly fainted with joy when he asked me out.

I thought of nothing else for two weeks. Of course, the real thing was something else.

A star on the field, he almost fractured my feet on the dance floor. Conversation was limited to rasping breath in my left ear drum and my strapless bra slipped to waist level.

Which wasn't serious. What was, was the fact that he thought that was my normal shape.

We couldn't get close together because of my stiff petticoats.

I remember wondering if he'd kiss me goodnight at the door — the expectation and then the final passionate pounce as the door opened and my father's equally passionate face appeared in the background.

Being a cool, calm and collected mother, I decided to pour a bottle of brandy and wait for the boys in the lounge.

They drifted in at 11pm.

I decided not to say a word.

"Did you have a good time? Did you have enough to eat? I hope you didn't catch a cold? Did you dance? Did you dance with girls? If not, why not? You didn't neck or something in the garden?"

"Hi," I said instead. "How was it?"

"Brilliant," said Barry. "They served hot beef on rye with pickles, onions and tomatoes."

It's a satisfying feeling to know your oldest, unmarried son has got his priorities right.

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