The Denim Birthday
The Denim Birthday was written for my writing group after I was given the challenge to write on the theme of ‘Blue Jeans.’ I came up with this story of a birthday and the clash of generations over what was appropriate wear. How to use, or not use, mobile phones also features, and there is, of course, a twist at the end!
A longer story, so I have split it into two parts for those who prefer to listen. To listen to part 1, please click here
And to listen to the second and concluding part, please click here
‘No jeans! Granny says so!’ Jenny slammed the landline back into its rest.
I shut my eyes, waiting for quiet after my daughter stomped her way back upstairs and slammed her bedroom door. This was all I needed. I had only that moment sunk into ‘my’ armchair ready to drink a well-deserved coffee.
‘Couldn’t that have waited two minutes?’ Claire said. My lovely wife conveniently forgetting I’d yelled ‘I’ll get it,’ as soon as I heard the phone ringing – but I had been in the kitchen, pouring out our coffees. Jenny had chosen not to hear me.
Maybe I should have gone through to the hallway and taken the handset from her. However, in my defence, I was hoping my mother and daughter might be able to have a decent conversation on Jenny’s birthday without fireworks. As they are such similar characters (both determined to be right especially when they’re wrong), it was a forlorn hope. Claire reminded me of this fact when she came into the lounge with her coffee and sat down on the sofa.
A door was flung open upstairs, heavier footsteps shook the lounge ceiling as they headed to the end of the corridor. A fist banged on a closed door.
‘Jenny! Open this door! How dare you tell Lucie she can’t come!’
In the lounge, Jenny’s shouted reply was indistinct, but the basic message was clear: Jenny didn’t care about Lucie. She’d never wanted her elder brother’s girlfriend to come.
‘If Lucie ain’t coming, then I’m not either!’
More words from behind the shut door, then:
‘You’re just a spoilt brat! You get everything you want! I hope your fucking birthday’s bloody foul!’
Downstairs, it was a race to see which of us stood first. In terms of speech, there was no contest:
‘I’m not having that sort of language in my house! I don’t care what Jenny’s done – it’s her birthday after all – Ben will apologise!’
‘Leave it!’ I knew what would happen if she went upstairs. Don’t get me wrong, I love my wife dearly, but her lay-down-the-law approach no longer works with her offspring. The best she gets is resentful compliance. To be fair, in her calmer moments, she recognises she ought not to try to run her family the way she runs her businesses, but when the stress increases, old patterns of behaviour re-assert themselves. Yes, before anyone says anything, I am considered too laid-back and easy-going (some say I’m too much of a people-pleaser) to intervene before things reach a crisis point – like now.
By the time I climbed the stairs, I not only had a wife who, after giving me an ambiguous glance, sat back down on the sofa and turned away from me; but I also faced two closed bedroom doors. I paused, a plan forming in my mind: this was going to need careful handling or Jenny’s birthday lunch was going to be less than satisfactory. Ben had only agreed to this meal out if he could invite his girlfriend and duck out of helping at Jenny’s party this evening. That was when about a dozen or so of her classmates were coming round. The meal out idea was to placate my mum, who, despite never having shown any interest in attending Ben’s birthday parties, had decided to get upset over the lack of an invitation to her ‘only grand-daughter’s’ twelfth birthday celebrations.
Whatever my mum had said or done, I still had a situation on my hands. It was the sort of incident my headteacher was handing over to me more and more – sometimes getting me out of the classroom in order to do so. As Assistant Head, it had become my role and, although I was as sure as I could be my own children were not drugged up, drunk, or armed with knives, they were both angry enough to hurl curses and insults at each other: words that might not be easy to forget or forgive.
I ducked into the master bedroom and retrieved what I needed from my bedside cabinet. Sliding it into my pocket, I returned to the landing.
‘Ben, Jenny. You will both open your doors now, if you please.’ Silence. ‘I said: Now.’
Although of all people, apart from my wife and mother that is, these two knew how to wind me up, I was determined. There would be no shouting. Ben cracked first.
‘Jenny,’ I said, ‘I won’t ask again.’
She opened her door and stood in the gap, resolutely playing on her phone. Ben also had his phone with him.
‘Right. We’re going to sort this out. But, before we discuss what grandma said … Jenny, what’s this about you telling Lucie she couldn’t come to your birthday lunch?’
I glared at Ben in order to cut off whatever he was going to say after: ‘Yeah, you –’ Jenny shrugged and carried on with whatever she was doing on her phone.
‘Right! Ben, I want you to call Lucie. And, Jenny, you can get up the messages you sent to Lucie – I am assuming it was “messaging” – and show me.’
‘You can’t look at my phone! It’s mine!’
‘You know the deal – you both know the deal.’
Before Jenny could respond, Ben interrupted: ‘What d’you want me to say?’ His thumbs were poised over his screen. I looked at him.
‘I said: “Call her.”’
‘Yeah – this is a DM, Dad.’
‘I know what a Direct Message is, Ben, but it’s not what I said, is it? That isn’t talking to her, is it?’
‘It’s what we do – this is talking.’ Ben rolled his eyes, his thoughts about his father’s idiocy obvious.
‘Get her number up and call her! You and me are both talking with her. Actual conversation with actual words. Come on, Jenny,’ I redirected my attention before my daughter could get too smug: ‘Your phone.’
‘You can’t. It’s locked,’ she reached for her door.
‘Oh, yes, I can. And you know the consequences if you’ve changed your password.’
‘I said, you can’t! You’re not allowed to take my phone.’
‘Just try me, young lady! And don’t even start on the Human Rights Act – I have enough of that rubbish at school.’ I paused. I was starting to raise my voice. I took a deep breath and held out my hand: ‘Your phone – now.’
‘Don’t bother, Dad. She’ll have deleted the conversation – won’t she?’ Ben faced his little sister, who stuck her tongue out at him.
‘Very grown-up, Jenny,’ I said, ‘but I still want the phone. And, Ben,’ I turned to my son, ‘haven’t you got Lucie on the line, yet?’
‘Sure. She wants to know why I couldn’t just message her.’
‘Because I want to know exactly what Jenny told her, that made her think she’d been “dis-invited” from today’s birthday meal.’ I held my other hand out for Ben’s phone, Jenny having, at long last, complied with my request. Ben put his mobile to his own ear and retreated to his room, telling his girlfriend in a frantic whisper to: ‘shut up and listen! Dad’s already got Jenny’s phone – yes! In his hand! Look, I keep telling you – he’s a bl— a teacher – he knows about mobiles. And he wants to talk to you – yes, on my phone – yes, now!’
While this was going on, Jenny had decided to change tactics and emerged from her room doing the good-little-girl-butter-wouldn’t-melt act. She stood beside me, looking up with the biggest blue eyes, her hands clasped in front of her, swinging her shoulders just a little. I handed back her phone.
‘Just get me that conversation,’ I said to her, ‘All of it.’
Her shoulders sagged. Her brother grinned, but I glared at him again.
‘Dad?’ Jenny was clasping her phone to her chest, ‘Granny really did say she wasn’t paying for the meal if anyone wore blue jeans – and she didn’t care if it was my birthday, I wasn’t old enough to decide what was “appropriate wear.”’ There were tears ready to drop. To be honest, that did sound like my mother. She, my mother, would no doubt insist she had been provoked, but that would have to be dealt with later.
‘Wait a moment,’ I turned back to Ben: ‘Did Lucie get that?’
Ben put his phone back to his ear to relay the message, but I hadn’t finished:
‘Put Lucie on speaker, please Ben, and let’s all sit, shall we?’
We trooped into the master bedroom and sat on the double bed, with me in-between my offspring. I was tempted to close the door in case Claire crept upstairs to listen, but thought on the whole I’d get into more trouble that way – I just had to hope she wouldn’t try to intervene.
It took a while. I told the kids we, not their granny, were paying for the meal. Yes, granny might have a thing about jeans, but it wasn’t her place to say anything.
‘Does she know about the staff uniform at the Belvidere?’ Ben said.
‘Obviously not,’ I replied, ‘but let’s leave that, shall we?’
Jenny said ‘sorry’ to Lucie. It seemed that messaging ‘If you’re wearing jeans you can’t come’ (without the context – which of course Lucie knew nothing about) could be interpreted as a dis-invite. I still hadn’t seen Jenny’s screen, but as I was not up on all the abbreviations and emojis, it might not have helped. Jenny also apologised for pretending not to hear me say I’d answer the landline. We all knew the only person who rang our landline – unless they were cold calls – was Ben and Jenny’s gran.
We also had a conversation about jeans. All I said was if jeans were to be worn, could they please not be ripped. Also, as I didn’t want Gran’s ire focussed solely on Jenny, or Lucie for that matter, I suggested either both girls wore jeans, or neither. I then produced what I had gone into my bedroom to get.
‘It was my fourteenth, or fifteenth, birthday party,’ I said, ‘and at the time I was horribly embarrassed, but it was a country-dance party. And that’s a photo of my mum.’
I passed the old-fashioned print to my daughter, who gasped, giggled, and passed it to her brother, who – I don’t know how he managed it – took a photo of it on his phone and sent that photo to Lucie while still continuing to talk with her. The upshot was both girls were to wear jeans, and I was under orders to have the photo in my pocket at the meal.
While my children expressed shock about their granny, my mind had already gone back to that event. I had expected Mum to sit the dances out, but she had been jigging and jumping with the best of them. Her defence was she was getting over her divorce and wanted a good time. Her husband had been a boring, unambitious fart, who’d left her just because there was another boring job fifty miles away, leaving her to bring up her son alone.
The truth was she’d gone to court for custody and won. Dad had to pay maintenance, and hope he’d see me occasionally. Mum started on the cocaine and (so it seemed to me at the time) brought a different ‘uncle’ home every week. I learned how to cook and clean, and spent a lot of time in my room. As soon as I got my exams at sixteen, I left home. Dad got me through my A-levels and degree course, found a lovely lady who he wanted to marry, and then his cancer robbed him of any lasting joy. Mum has had two more divorces, and been widowed – the last giving her enough money to live off. So she could, if she wanted, pay for today’s meal, but cracking open her purse? Easier to break into Fort Knox armed with a toothpick.
‘And I’ll see Ben’s smartly dressed.’ Claire’s words broke into my thoughts. Ben’s mouth was open, but no sound emerged. The silent appeal came in my direction. Again, I had to act.
‘Lucie?’ I said, ‘How quickly can you be ready?’
A puzzled silence emerged from Ben’s phone. I carried on: ‘What I was going to suggest was if I could come to get you sooner rather than later, you could help Ben decide what he was going to wear. How does that sound?’
As Ben continued to look at me, I whispered: ‘Your mum, or your girlfriend? Your choice.’ I waved him off. Jenny was also allowed to depart past her fuming mother. Now I just had two grown-up women to deal with.
‘And why can’t I sort my son out?’
‘Because he would be the only one in a suit at the Belvidere!’ I got off the bed where we’d all been sitting, so I wasn’t looking up at my wife: ‘It’s a family lunch, not a business meeting. You can wear what you like, but you’re not getting me into a tie!’
‘Your mother won’t like it!’
‘My mother is obviously not in the sort of mood to like anything. And, this meal is your idea – not mine.’
I left before she could remind me if it was her idea, I had agreed to it.
In the lounge, my cold coffee was waiting for me. Wishing I could put a slug of whisky in it to fortify myself before my next task, I glugged it down, grimaced, and went for the landline.
Words were said. For once, I managed to say more than were said to me. For once, I was able to make it clear to Mum her idea of a joke – that was her line, her excuse – was not appreciated. She didn’t have to come. However, if she did come, there were to be no comments about jeans. Mum said she would behave.
When I got back from collecting Lucie, time was getting short. With a silent glance, I dared my wife to complain I was the only one who still had to get organised for this now much-dreaded lunch out.
By the time I stepped out of the shower, Claire had laid out my change of clothes on the bed. I stopped, looked again: the trousers were black, but…
‘Darling? What exactly are we playing at?’
‘Well,’ she said, coming up behind me and giving me a hug, ‘if all the younger generation are going to be in denim … besides,’ she was now nibbling my ear – the woman can be very distracting! – ‘I think I ought to give you some leeway for sorting out the kids earlier.’ She let me go.
‘All right,’ I turned to look at her: ‘You’ve been playing me, haven’t you? You had no intention of telling Ben off – or telling him what to wear!’ She shrugged, grinned. Her eyes are less blue than her daughter’s, but she can still wear tight-fitting jeans, and her blouse had an extra undone button – and there was me wondering where her daughter got her coquettish behaviour from!
‘Go on, woman,’ I said, ‘leave me be or I’ll be undressing you in short order!’
‘Promises! Promises!’ But she was leaving the room doing up that extra button. I reached for my jeans.
There were two trips to get everyone to the Belvidere. I dropped the family off before I went to collect Mum. Maybe she didn’t realise due to the colour, but her only comment was about my lack of a tie.
‘I wear a tie every day at school, Mum. I’ll be hanged if I wear one at the weekend as well.’ After that, I concentrated on driving as Mum hugged her coat about herself.
We arrived to find the rest of the family waiting at the table. Ben stood as his granny approached, but she was too busy summoning a jeans-wearing waiter with a click of her fingers to notice. Granny stood a little apart; taking her time. She removed her coat and handed it to the waiter: ‘It might be old, young man, but it’s Burberry, so mind you look after it!’ He turned away, only to be recalled. He had not drawn Granny’s chair out for her. Chastised, he did so, and went off with instructions to send one of his colleagues to take the wine order ‘immediately.’
Granny looked round the silent table: ‘What are you staring at? If you lot can all – yes, I did notice, William – wear denim, why shouldn’t I?’ People were starting to look. Granny hadn’t bothered to keep her voice down, not that she was worried about being the centre of attention: ‘It still fits, William. And, yes, it’s exactly the same outfit I wore to your birthday party all those years ago. Your friends were rather keen on it – shall I tell everyone what went on?’
‘No, mother, you will not!’ I was blushing furiously: ‘Are you going to order the wine, or am I?’
In the silence that followed, as my mum grabbed the wine list, I passed that photo, the one Ben, Jenny and Lucie had already seen, to Claire. It was the same denim outfit: waistcoat, jacket and skirt. However, even a thirty-year-old photograph showed, unlike today’s modesty, there was no visible blouse – and some very ardent male-gazing at a semi-exposed chest.