My mother and I are weaving our way through London in a cab. We’re together for the first time since just after Christmas and the taxi driver is making a valiant attempt at small talk. It’s hard work. For him and for us. But then, for my mother and me, it’s always hard work. We never know how to greet each other, and when we meet, our conversations are strained. It’s doubly hard work today because we are on our way to our first — and what might be our last — mother-daughter therapy session.
I’d heard of this kind of therapy before and wondered if it might help us. Counselling has been on the increase among couples, and children and parents, for many years, with what seem to me to be very positive results. So I couldn’t help thinking it was worth a try, even if we just dipped a toe in the water once. I first broached the subject of us going to counselling or therapy some years ago.
My suggestion met with a non-committal shrug, as has been the case with most of my attempts at a Big Talk with my mother. When I asked her, all those years ago, whether we could sort out our differences, she replied that she didn’t think we had any differences and didn’t know what my problem was. I didn’t broach the subject again. Instead, we got on with our lives, hundreds of miles apart — her in Kent, me in Yorkshire.
We spoke on the phone occasionally, met a handful of times a year, never fell out but never talked about anything significant, and certainly never confided in each other. ‘I’m not particularly close to my mum,’ was my standard line, ‘It’s fine, really. We just don’t have that sort of relationship,’ was my weary follow-up. I’m an only child and my dad, with whom I got on well, died six years ago. My mother and I never really ‘fell out’ when I was growing up, but there was never that closeness that other girls described, and I left home when I was 18.But now, eight months’ pregnant and about to have my own daughter, I find myself unable to tolerate the idea that I might ever be this awkward with my own child. The state of my relationship with my mother had been bothering me for months until, finally, I decided to suggest once again that we try to do something about it.
Somehow, miraculously, my mother agreed. And so, at the end of a very tense cab journey, we find ourselves sitting in a large, bright-coloured room in Marylebone with a therapist. We have agreed to a one-off session initially, but I am hopeful that it might mark the beginning of a much longer journey.
Why my mother has agreed to do this now, after all this time, is unclear, but when I feel a list of complaints boiling up in my throat in front of the therapist, I try to remind myself that she has agreed, and that this is a huge — HUGE — step forward. When we both sit down together, the therapist asks us why we are here. She correctly identifies the principal problem between us to be one of communication. She then invites each of us to say what we think the problem is.
My main beef is my mother’s apparent lack of interest in the imminent arrival of her first and only grandchild, something which has hit home even more since complete strangers have felt the need to tell me how much they bet my mum is beyond excited and how much she will dote on my child.
A relentless Talker Through Of Problems, as well as a professional journalist and amateur psychologist, I feel strangely comfortable being asked awkward questions by the therapist. The journalist in me is used to making people squirm, and the talker in me loves the chance to divulge her inner feelings. My mother, on the other hand, is palpably uncomfortable. Her arms are firmly folded, and when asked opening questions, she smiles and shrugs.
‘Is this making you uncomfortable?’ the therapist asks. ‘No, I’m fine!’ my mother replies defensively, perched on the very edge of her seat. Eventually the therapist manages to tease out the issues. I am stunned when my mother confesses that she doesn’t share her emotions readily — I never thought I would hear her admit that in a million years. In a split second, I suddenly see my mother as someone with unexpected self-awareness. It’s just a small glimmer, but it’s there.
When the therapist tries to determine why this is, however, her awareness seems to recede. ‘That’s just how our family is,’ my mother replies. For whatever reason, she’s right, and this has resulted in an awkward mother-daughter relationship in which neither of us has ever really said what we think. ‘How do you feel about your new grandchild?’ the therapist asks. ‘Delighted,’ says my mum.
I have to admit, this is news to me. The day I told her I was pregnant (on Christmas Day, on the phone), she paused, then said woodenly: ‘Oh, I thought you weren’t having any children.’Our conversations in the months since then have comprised trivial, polite pussy-footing, with the occasional: ‘How are you?’ But little more. I tell my mother this and she looks shocked. ‘But I am pleased!’ she says. ‘SO COULD YOU LET ME KNOW SOMETIMES?’ I want to scream.