My mum had sent off her manuscript with a light heart to various publishers and we, that is Mum, Dad and I, had gone down the pub to celebrate the end of what had seemed to us to be months of giving her a wide berth while she went through tortuous writing, rewriting, correcting, binning, cursing, raging and finally emerging with a triumphant smile on her face, clutching the oeuvre to her ample bosom.
But that euphoria now seemed a distant memory as the weeks had gone by and the rejection slips had begun to drop ominously like tolling bells through our letterbox.
And that's why I'd now come home to find her slouched disconsolately in the kitchen, the latest publisher's reply screwed up in her hand while her tears fell unashamedly onto the tabletop. I dropped my backpack to the floor and rushed over to her, taking her into my arms and wiping the tears from her eyes and the smudged mascara from her cheeks. What I didn't attempt was to mop up the stream which had cascaded down her chest and turned her into a potential Wet T-shirt contestant.
"Hey, hey, Mum, it's alright, I'm here, shush now..."
"Oh, Ian, I've just received a rejection from the last publisher I sent my story to...that's it, they don't like it, it's over..."
"No it's not. It's not. Show me the letter."
I kept one arm round her shoulder, holding her to me while I spread out the creased, damp sheet of paper she proffered to me. I ironed it out across my lap because it was no use laying it out onto the table which at the moment was more like a reservoir. I began to read to the accompaniment of her sniffles, smoothing down her wavy blond hair and humming softly in a vain attempt to calm her.
"Mum, you know this letter is really not so bad..." another sniffle. "Okay, they've rejected it, but they're leaving you the option to revise it, edit it together with a few more things and then resubmit. Mum, that's not a total rejection, they're actually encouraging you..!"
"But they've all said 'no'. Just look at this pile of letters..."
She opened one. 'We are very sorry but at this moment we are not receiving...' and another, 'I am afraid we only accept from published authors...' and yet another, 'Our readership would not find this subject suitable...' She brushed them all off the table onto the floor.
"I really thought my story was good. At least I was sure it was better than some of the crap I read from these people..."
I honestly thought she should be aiming a little higher than a comparison to a turd, but I kept that to myself.
"Mum, it sounds like this last fellow is actually sincere. He does seem to have read it, unlike those others, and he does sound as if he's offering you some good advice, and as they say, 'If at first you don't succeed..."
"Give up on the lion taming?" She laughed through her tears and we fell into a soft hug, her breasts pressing up against me, making my own shirt damp, and my lips kissing through her scented hair. If it hadn't been my mission to bolster her confidence, I could have stayed like that a long time, but we broke apart and I sighed.
"The publisher says you should edit it. So, who did you find to edit the original?"
"The original? Well, nobody. I went through it all myself..."
"Stop right there. You're telling me nobody looked at the piece with a pair of fresh eyes and offered you suggestions? Not Aunty Joan or maybe someone in your office? Or Dad?"
"No, I..."
"But, Mum, that's one of the first rules of writing. You as the author, you're too involved in the story, you don't see mistakes which are totally obvious to the general reader. Look..." I went across to a shelf of her paperbacks and took down a couple, opening them at the pages where the authors had acknowledged all the help given them in the preparation of their works. Each one had referred to a long list of editors, proofreaders, researchers and general shoulders to cry on when the going got tough.
"You see? You shouldn't go it alone. Give it to me. I'll edit it for you."
"You? But you've got your studies, I can't ask you to spend time..."
"Shush. I've told you, I'll edit it. Now give me a copy."
"Well..."
"Now. Go."
"Well, if you're really sure..." and she levered herself up, giving me a tear-soaked smile, and went up to the spare room, her 'study', after throwing me another last shy glance and smile over her shoulder. While she was gone, I tidied the kitchen, gathering up the detritus of her rejection slips and wiping down the flooded tabletop.
When she reappeared, Mum had tidied herself up as well. She'd changed her blouse, combed through her hair and adjusted her mascara. I think she'd even added a few touches to her lipstick and the blusher in her cheeks. She suddenly looked very attractive and confident, though her first words belied my assumption. She held the bound folder up to her chest.
"I'm not sure, I mean, it's a bit risqué...you might think I'm a bit of a trollop...you're my son and I don't know if this would be suitable..."
"A trollop? Haha. Good one. Anyway, I'm nineteen and if I wanted to, I could join the army and they'd let me shoot people, so...hand it over."
I stretched out my arm and received the weighty folder into my hand.
"Please don't think less of me because of some of the things I've written..."
I placed the folder onto the table and turned to her, gripping her by the shoulders.
"Mum, nothing you could write could ever make me think less of you. You're gorgeous, you're talented and, if you've written anything even remotely deviously sexy in here, you can only improve your rating in my eyes."
She laughed and I hugged her again. I felt her breasts squashing up to my chest and her hands going up and down my back, pulling me even closer in. She looked up into my face and when I looked down it was to place my lips over hers. They were soft and pliant and...we pulled apart before I was tempted to go further.
"Ian, there's something you ought to know, I..."
"No, don't tell me anything. Let me just read this with an open mind and I'll get back to you after I've given it a first run-through."
With that, I placed a kiss on her nose, picked up the package and took it up to my room.
That evening and through the next day I read her story. I would come down to the kitchen occasionally for coffee and a snack, sensing Mum's eyes trying to drill through my head, but I studiously avoided her gaze until I'd completely finished the manuscript.
Then I came into the kitchen. She had her back turned, busy at the worktop, and I dropped the folder onto the table with a thud. Mum spun round and her gaze travelled from me to the manuscript and back again to me, a quizzical look in her eyes. I betrayed nothing and simply gestured for her to sit opposite me. She wiped her hands on a towel and took the chair, smoothing her skirt underneath her. She clasped her hands in front of her on the table and waited with a nervous smile for my judgement.
"The story's good." Her smile was less nervous. "The syntax is a bit iffy and needs work." Well, that was surely something that could be put right. "I wanted to empathize with the characters but I had some trouble relating to them." This elicited a small 'Oh'. "I was intrigued all the way to the last page, which is excellent." Her smile was now broad. A pause. "But..." Her smile vanished.
"Mum, how in hell was I ever conceived?"
