We used our dad’s name, Patterson, for quite a while, even after he deserted us, until our Mum, Catherine (pronounced ‘C-A-T-E-R-E-E-N’), opted for her own distinctive surname – ‘Poullain’* – to signal a single-handed devotion and sole authority over us. Being French, and the most hyper woman on the planet, she couldn’t help but stand out among the dowdy Scottish mothers who tended to shy away from denim hot-pants and a Kevin Keegan bubble perm. It wasn’t unusual for an 11-year-old budding Romeo in my primary school to rhapsodise about her charms – ‘Franny’s ma’s a pure “ride”, by the way!’ – while his pal would nod along sagely, just to make sure I got the point: ‘Ah’d gie her one, right enough.’
I was touched by the sentiment, but wasn’t quite sure how to respond.
She brought me up to believe that ‘Humans are worse than pigs because at least pigs push their rubbish into a corner.’ Looking back she was right, but that’s probably what triggered off my misanthropy, and it also meant my mum was accidentally responsible for me becoming a vegetarian: after all, how could I be expected to breakfast on a superior life form?
Instead, she broke raw eggs into our porridge (oats, water and salt) on school days, insisting that the heat of the oats would ‘cook’ the eggs and that this slimy ritual was the most nutritious breakfast anyone could wish for. I could gag all I like – when it came to the benefits of a healthy morning meal, my mum’s mind was made up. And there was a wooden spoon at hand to make sure we got the message.
One day back in the mid-eighties, we were cruising along the Promenade des Anglais in Nice on the Côte D’Azur, on the way to see our French grandparents, when a couple of friendly hitching backpackers noticed the UK number plate on our Mini hatchback and shouted, ‘WE’RE BRITISH TOO!’ just as we were approaching them. It was a lovely day, but overheated car journeys can get to anyone – even mothers. She shot her head out the window and howled like a banshee: ‘F-O-C-K O-F-F!’The Promenade des Anglais froze in shocked silence. I looked back and saw these bewildered hippies with their mouths hanging open, wondering exactly what it was they’d done to provoke such fury.
With her French accent, and the sheer randomness of said outburst, the incident was doubly entertaining for my brothers and me. After that, whenever we saw hippies thumbing a lift we’d shout, ‘FUCK OFF!’ at them – in a French accent, of course – just to see their reaction. If there’s one thing worse than a hippy, it’s a hitchhiking one who’s British and proud of it.
Recently, she got back from a Kenyan safari holiday and made a point of telling me a story about the male bull elephant reaching adolescence. Apparently, with the first sexual stirrings he tries instinctively to ‘mount’ the mother, who then pushes him away, banishing him into adulthood and the outside world. Then, if she sees him again, she’ll raise her trunk in a greeting of recognition and he’ll silently march past in a kind of stoic shame.
It seems that even baby elephants are embarrassed about maternal relations. But you don’t learn anything if you only stay in one place, so you could say that being embarrassed is a blessing in disguise – sometimes it takes travelling the world to realise that your mum is the most entertaining one.
* ‘Poulain’ is French for ‘foal’ or ‘baby horse’, but bullies chose to mishear it as ‘poulet’ (‘chicken’). I can’t blame them, really. There’s much less mileage in: ‘You’re nothing but a baby horse.’