I think my mother deserves a better son

Until recently, my brother lived closer to our parents than I do. When he finished university, he moved back in with them for a few months, then found a place in nearby Cambridge. A couple of subsequent house moves took him a few miles further away, but he could still drive back in about half an hour.

It’s not as if I was on the other side of the world. Where I am now, in northwest Hertfordshire, the journey to my folks can be done in about 70 minutes on a decent run; or four hours if Insulate Britain have glued themselves to the tarmac at junction 20 of the M25.

Still, if the need arose to get someone round to help with a job, or in case of an emergency, my brother was the guy on the hook. It also meant he could pop over for a late notice Sunday lunch or to pick seven pounds of raspberries when the parentals were on holiday. But those were only fair rewards for the times when dad needed help with a “faulty” printer (aka, not properly plugged in) or to remove a tree stump.

All this has changed, however, since my brother traded in his semi-detached 3-bedroom home in St Ives (the Cambridgeshire version) for a 43-acre smallholding and farmhouse in very rural Wales. Now, while he tends to his ducks and figures out how to manage a vast, uncared-for wood hours from anywhere, I have become the go-to son for any matters arising at the family home. Not that there have been any yet, but the responsibility weighs heavy.

So far, the signs of my suitability for the task are about as obvious as those displayed by Boris Johnson for being the man to save the planet from climate change.

Last week, during half-term, I took my son to see his grandparents. My daughter and wife were elsewhere, which meant that there was little to distract from Tristan’s appetite for endless sporting activity. Sure enough, when we first arrived, he grabbed his cricket stumps from the car and went to inspect our usual pitch (my dad’s back lawn). I saw my father blanch somewhat and a little later he took me aside to ask whether Tristan would mind playing games on the local recreation ground in order not to ruin his grass.

Tristan, belligerent and keen to mark out his long run, minded very much indeed. And in the battle between a 6-year-old tantrum and a 71-year-old grumble, the tantrum won. As soon as it stopped raining, we got down to business.

That afternoon, a lot of cricket was played; the wet lawn became if not a swamp then perhaps a quagmire. My dad, working away in his study, occasionally glanced out, cheering Tristan’s sixes but looking miserably at the muddy morass.

When I took a turn batting, my mother came outside and was immediately posted to deep square-leg by her uber-competitive grandson. I chipped a couple of gentle catches in her direction and she grabbed the tennis ball with ease, the instincts that made her a fearsome sporting opponent in our own childhood, still evident.

Tristan was cock-a-hoop, giving each of my batters the kind of send-off that umpires frown on. I’m afraid I bristled somewhat at the kind of ungallant, unsporting behaviour that can clearly be traced back to his father, and decided I needed to up my scoring rate.

The next ball disappeared over the patio: six runs, get in! The one after that was a touch fuller (technically a no-ball because Tristan hasn’t yet got the hang of straight-arm bowling, but we have agreed to let it lie). I moved forward to meet it as it pitched just outside leg stump, intending to clip it gracefully over the boundary once more.

However, I hadn’t accounted for the erratic pitch, and a little extra bounce meant that although I hit it cleanly, I failed to clear the infield. Instead, the ball whistled straight towards my mother, who saw it late and raised her hands for the catch just as the ball smacked into her cheek. She looked momentarily stunned, but fortunately managed to keep her balance, which at least ensured she didn’t tumble backwards into the window.

I dashed over to check I hadn’t knocked any of her teeth out, while my son simply threw up his hands and bemoaned Granny’s failure to bring him the wicket he clearly thought he deserved. Mum assured me all was well, and I thanked the Lord that we hadn’t been using a proper cricket ball.

All in all, then, I think we’re off to a sticky start. Should any emergencies arise – and indeed they may be of my doing – my brother may find he has a journey to make after all.