New life
In the club
Zenga Longmore
Days seemed like months as I waited on tenterhooks for the re-opening of the One O'Clock Club, the social nerve centre of Brixton's mother and baby scene. Not knowing how to join, I had often stood out- side it, gazing in at its members with dumb yearning.
However, last Thursday, the primaeval gossip-drive which sends men to pubs and women to coffee mornings drove me there. All it took was the mere push of an iron gate and there I was, bang in the heart of a dozen cliques of mothers. Smoke billowed from each clique, and every mother sat with her back squarely towards me. Oma- lara, with a wild cry resembling that of a Celtic warrior spotting an untouched keg of mead, flew towards the sand-pit. I attempt- ed to break into a tightly knit circle of mothers who appeared to be making smoke signals to the other parental rings, possibly to alert them to imminent danger.
`Hi,' I began, trying the hip, American approach as a conversation-starter. A florid-faced mother, without troubling to glance in my direction, pulled her seat clos- er into the circle.
`Cold today,' I hazarded, attempting the English approach. A mother with dark cir- cles beneath her sea-green eyes replied with a wintry smile that it is not the weath- er that makes the day.
Sensing a certain lack of maternal matey- ness, I joined Omalara, who was sitting by the side of the sand-pit deep in discussion with a pink-cheeked boy who proved to be called William. The elder by about a year, William had a slight edge on Omalara where it came to fluency of tongue.
`Oo ya lookin' at, rat-face? I yit ya,' he was saying.
`Shoo! Shoo!' Omalara drawled, then stared coldly in an attitude reminiscent of Bette Davis in one of her finer moments.
`I yit ya,' repeated William, monotonous- ly. 'OW came a voice offstage. Turning, I beheld the terrifying spectacle of the florid- faced woman leaning over in her seat, wav- ing an arm which any Belgian barman would be proud to possess. 'Could you get Your little girl to leave my William alone! And she's not allowed in the sand-pit any- how if she's wearing shoes. We do have rules 'ere, y'know.'
Mrs Florid's speech paved the way for a general muttering which spread with alarm- ing alacrity throughout the One O'Clock Club. I steered Omalara into the main building, and in so doing managed to escape the smokers' circles and join a new set of mothers. The indoor mothers sat serenely watching their offspring splash paint upon one another and tear up books. `Your little boy is a talented artist,' I lied to a snub-nosed mother, as her son threw paint violently upon the floor. `Yes, he's frightfully keen on painting in this establishment. Do you know, I read in the Independent that money spent on pre- school education actually saves money on arresting and imprisoning years later. Not that my little Josh will ever require arrest- ing or imprisoning, of course. . . . ' Then she threw me a sidelong glance which clearly implied, 'but you might bear that well in mind.'
Disillusioned but not embittered, I reflected on the folly of building up the One O'Clock Club to myself as a kind of Utopia for mother and child. Would Oma- lara take after me in foolish optimism? It was a clear, blue afternoon and a white half-moon hung suspended over Brixton's redundant chimney-pots. I pointed it out to Omalara.
`I want it!' she announced gravely. But children are only supposed to want the moon to play with and the stars to run away with in books and songs,' I explained. `Get it, Mummy,' she insisted, proving that a bizarre lunar craving is also to be found in weekly columns.
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