Free Making It Up by Penelope Lively Page A

expected of him, would say that indeed, yes, that might well be so. But since he did have views of his own he would tell his wife—fondly enough—that she was a born coper, in his opinion, and would have pursued much the same course, whatever.
    â€œThat’s as may be,” said Chloe. “Possibly. I’m a total believer in control over one’s own destiny, to be grandiose. Well, you haven’t lived with me for all this time without being aware of that .”
    John would agree, heartily.
    â€œBut, that said, I will allow that circumstances are formative. It may well be that my mum’s deficiencies set me going, as it were.”
    The children, growing in articulacy, would put political interpretations upon their mother’s attitudes: “Mum, you’re just so right-wing.”
    â€œAnd you are being simplistic,” she would tell them. “Politics don’t enter into it. Though, as it happens, all politics are about control, anyway—whether it’s the left or the right. My opinions aren’t political, they’re to do with how a person is to deal with life. And I vote pragmatically, I’ll have you know.”
    The lives of children are mysterious, opaque even to those who know them best. Parents, existing cheek by jowl with their offspring, feel them to be almost an extension of themselves—their bodies, their habits, their speech and mannerisms so familiar that they seem to require no further consideration. This is not so, of course; much is going on there that would be startling and alarming if decoded. Mercifully, this alternative existence of children is also impenetrable.
    Chloe had been aware of this problem, and so, in the early days of motherhood, she had boned up a bit on developmental psychology, which did not seem to get her very far. She learned about the limitations of spatial and temporal perception in infants, and that small children have difficulty in conceiving of a point of view other than their own, which perhaps accounts for some of the intransigence, but when it came to explaining the more baffling practices of nine- and ten-year-olds, let alone of adolescents, the experts were not much help. Like most mothers, Chloe came to accept that there is an uneasy duality with one’s young: they are indeed those beings so intimately familiar to you, but these are shadowed by others who are away on business of their own which you would not understand even if you knew what it was. To dwell too much on this uneasy situation is to find your parental confidence corroded. Accordingly, Chloe did not, and got on with the practicalities of family life.
    The boys were pretty unfathomable, as teenagers. Chloe decided that much of this otherness was to do with the gender divide, and did not get too concerned; after all, if you have never been a male adolescent yourself, there are going to be certain experiences that are a closed book. Sophie seemed considerably more transparent. Chloe knew—just—what it was like to be worried about your bust development or the shape of your legs; admittedly, she herself had been rather less focused on such matters than most girls, being principally concerned with the escape and advancement plan that she had already drawn up. Sophie was altogether dreamier, less applied and more susceptible to distractions. But nothing to get exercised about; she was doing fine.
    Chloe’s own career was in full swing, at this time. She was a busy woman, locked into a demanding schedule of meetings, school visits, desk work. It was a relief to feel that the children were nicely on course now, that they did not need the full beam of her attention, that you could allow the week to pass with only routine checks that all was what it should be. No need to be breathing down their necks; better, indeed, to allow them some space. The careful nurturing of the early years had paid off, she told John; they’re motivated, they’re