Guess How Much
A story about my Mum, £4 coffees, and my battered old bike
Nobody knew how to find a bargain like my Mum. I remember the occasions she came back from the shops, walking into the living room as she held a jumper or a new jacket up on the hanger next to her face - beaming with pride and a mischievous glimmer in her eye.
“Guess how much?”
“10 pounds?” I’d ask. A price that might seem a rude starting point to some, but I was getting used to the kind of ballpark figures we were dealing with.
“Ooh, no!” she would scoff… “£2.60!”
She raised 7 children on my Dad’s wage. Finishing work at a young age when she found out she was expecting her first child. It was always the plan. When the topic of marriage came up my Mum told my Dad clearly “I don’t want to work if we have children. I had no Dad, my Mum never came to anything I did at school, she never took me to school, never came to a parents evening. But I want to be there for my children.” And she certainly was.
She told me once how Gran had hidden her letter of acceptance to grammar school, because she couldn’t afford to buy the uniform for Mum. “I was always confused” she told me. “I knew when we did the practice tests that I was always near the top. And some of the people who went to grammar school were never as high up as me in the scores. I thought I must have done something dreadfully wrong or messed it up somehow. It never bothered me, I stayed with all the friends I have now. But I did always wonder. She didn’t tell me until after we got married.”
With the first child on the way, my parents moved out of their house and downsized to get one half the price. Dad took up taxi driving in the evening while doing teacher training in the day time, and Mum learned how to make ends meet.
When I look back now, I’m amazed at how it was possible raising 7 children on Dad’s wage. It’s only when I tell the stories as an adult that I realise it was an unusual family upbringing: 9 of us in one house, with one bathroom. Yet, I never felt like my childhood was lacking. It was rich, full, joyful. I grew up going on trips with Mum to the cash-and-carry wholesale stores, buying bulk food and supplies. Every day after school I’d have a “jam butty” and a Vimto, maybe a digestive biscuit while I sat on a cushion on the living room floor and watched Pokémon. Even when my school friends came over there would be a snack for us all. Toasted tea cakes, buttered malt bread. I never felt that we were without.
I remember complaining about the dinners, not wanting to finish the veg, how much she would tell me to eat up and not waste food. Looking back now I realise the cost and the effort that went into providing that food for us, but I had no idea. I was too young to know.
Mum’s bargain hunting was often comically impractical. She’d often drive another 20 miles to find an item £1 cheaper, which probably cost more than that in petrol. She’d call up friends and ask if they happened to be passing a town 2 hours away from us, and if they wouldn’t mind picking up an item she’d found on eBay. I took many of those eBay road trips myself - it was a full day event. We found bikes, sofas, go karts, bed frames and everything in between for amazing prices.
I watched my older siblings growing up, getting jobs, leaving home, providing for themselves. Even as the burden lessened on my parents income, I feel like the frugal mindset never really left Mum. They did occasionally spend on something. I remember getting the flat screen TV and being so impressed with it. I remember taking holidays to France and getting every ounce of enjoyment from the experience. But there was always a hesitance to spend on anything that might not be necessary, or a question of how much things cost.
Nothing was thrown out that couldn’t be repaired. Even the things that were broken were still kept somewhere in the house, “just in case”. Everything was precious and everything mattered because Mum knew what it cost to have those things.
When I got my first job and was finally able to pay for things on my own, I would have to hide shopping bags and receipts from my Mum.
“Is this new? How much was it?” she’d say as she found a new t-shirt in the laundry basket.
“It was on sale!” I’d say. Sometimes if I explained the discount first it would soften the blow.
“How… much…?” she’d say, more sternly this time.
“£20” I’d sheepishly admit.
She’d let out an exasperated sigh and roll her eyes.
The responses could really go either way, often it would be utter disbelief at the cost, or I would be told where I could have got it cheaper, or that I already have two shirts like that, or, very rarely, and to my relief I’d hear “oh, that’s not too bad.”
But my parents would still provide when they could. Not long after I started my job, they bought me a bike for my birthday so I could commute easier to the train. I remember going with them to pick it out at the shop. The store owner told me “it’s a decent bike if you don’t mind how it looks..” which I always thought was a strange thing to say. “Why, how does it look?” I thought to myself.
I loved that bike. I’d ride it to work, and into town. It was Matte Black with sleek mudguards and a rail on the back for my carrying bags. For Christmas I got the pannier bag to put my laptop and work clothes in too.
Eventually, after Dad had passed away and I had moved out on my own, I’d take Mum out for trips to see new places, I’d try and bring her to the city centre where I was living and show her the cafes I like to visit and the shops I enjoy, try and let her experience a little of the life I’d moved into town for. Often I would pick her up in the morning to go and visit a brunch spot, and find her leaving the house with a flask of home-made coffee and toast wrapped in a tissue.
“You know we’re going to a coffee place, right?” I’d ask.
“Yes, but I’m not paying £3 for a coffee when we’ve got perfectly good coffee at home!”
Even when I explained something was *my treat*, I’d have to hide the menu, make sure she doesn’t see the price before I tap my card. I’d see her looking at me with the question in her eyes.
“Don’t worry about it” I’d say.
The longer I’ve lived in the city, part of me feels like it’s becoming desensitised to the prices. Things just creep up and up and there doesn’t seem to be much you can do about it. I still feel a little guilty looking at certain clothes stores. But the swirl of city life seems to wrap you up in its dizzying dance of spending, getting, consuming, conforming. Everyone dresses this way, eats these things, shops in those stores. Isn’t it normal?
Over time, it began to seem that the utopic vision of urban life that’s set out for us is, in reality, a never-ending cycle of increasing cost and diminishing returns when it comes to our enjoyment of things. A life in which the real winners are the brands and the businesses, and the cost is not just financial but something harder to name.
My £6 matcha latte rarely hits quite as good as the cup of hot Vimto at my folks’ house while I was watching Pokemon on the floor. That artisanal cinnamon bun, a little stiff and crumbling on the ground as you bite it, doesn’t quite feel as comforting as the freshly toasted tea cake with butter after school. “4 o’clock-ies” as we used to call it.
I still ride that same bike, but these days it’s looking a little worse for wear. The matte black paint has scratched off in places. There are holes at the end of the rubber on the handle bars. There’s a piece of plastic broken off the right side pedal from when I fell on the icy road on my way to the Christmas carol service. I joke with my friends how “nobody wants this bike”. In one of my more Type B forgetful moments I left my bike locked outside a restaurant on the edge of town right before I took a trip away for a week. It was still there when I came back, untouched. I was almost a little offended that nobody tried to steal it. After a while I started to feel that maybe I don’t want the bike anymore, either.
In my late night scrolls, the algorithm started feeding me content about different bike brands, all the best models. Many of them 4, 5 or 6 times the price of my bike. I walked into a store in London last time I was there, all these new bikes standing in a row. Shiny, sleek design, in every colour combination you could imagine. Accessories all displayed on a minimalist pin board with prices on those little black and white blocks underneath. A chilled, Neo-Soul playlist coming from the speaker in the corner. I started dreaming about getting one.
It’s been just over a year since Mum passed. I miss our conversations and hearing her stories. I miss our trips to town and her home-made coffee in a flask. I’ve started adopting the habit of making my own drink before I go out too. I often take a drive somewhere with a cup of tea in a mug from home.
I was glad that I was able to really treat my Mum in the last year. I was offered the opportunity to perform on a cruise ship, and I asked the organisers if I could bring my Mum too. We got to sail around the Mediterranean for a week with everything paid for! A position I know I could only be in because of what my parents provided for me to be able to learn music and have the time and space to do what it took to become an artist. She truly loved that trip and kept saying “I’m just a girl from Salford! What am I doing on a cruise ship?”. We often said that nobody enjoyed things quite as much as Mum. She loved all the little treats, she would take in every sight and sound, she would join in the fight scenes of movies, she would laugh deeper and smile wider than anyone I knew. And as much as she would frown at prices, she knew how to take great joy in things too.
Nowadays I’m adjusting to life on my own, but I still feel a little bit guilty when I get something I know is overpriced. I still want to hide the receipt. I walk into coffee shops and I still hear Mum’s voice “£4 for a cup of tea?? It’s £1 at the library!”. I said something similar to a friend recently without thinking, and chuckled to myself realising that something of her is still a part of me.
But it wouldn’t be accurate to say my parents were entirely anti-spending. I remember the moments when we decided on something we really, genuinely wanted, and would be able to get. The flatscreen TV, the trip to France. I remember bringing up the idea that I wanted to use my college student grant to get a laptop, and how they offered a 20% discount to students if you show your ID. I was prepared to fight my case and explain why it was a good idea but to my surprise I heard both of my parents say “get it!”. I don’t think I’ve felt more excitement over a computer since then. I remember opening it up and peeling off the plastic and knowing that, this was ok, it was worth it. Sometimes when I’m trying to decide on something that I would genuinely use and need I hear that voice too: “get it”. I see their smile of knowing that I’m able to do that because of the life they gave me - the life they worked and sacrificed for me to have. The opportunity to be able to pursue an education and a job and to be fed and cared for and provided for throughout. I don’t want to lose that gratitude or the joy that the right things can bring.
After pinning a few options of new bikes and browsing various websites and watching comparison videos on YouTube, I closed all the tabs and shut my laptop lid. I’m aware that it’s already a position of privilege to even be considering a purchase like that - but sometimes I find we’re so blinded by marketing that I’m just trying to find small but conscious ways I can make choices towards joy and gratitude in what we already have.
Yesterday, I rode my old matte black bike to the repair store and I got some new pedals to repair the broken ones. The man at the shop helped me fit them for free. He gave me an extra screw so I could fix the wobbly mud guard at the back. I thought about telling Mum about how kind the man was to do that for no extra cost. It rides so much better now.
This weekend I plan on taking it outside, setting it upside down like my Dad used to show me in the garden, and giving it a good clean. I’m going to oil its chain, tighten the brakes and finally adjust the seat height that I’ve been meaning to do for years. Because I want to be grateful for what I have. And I want to love what I have, while I still have it.
In Vietnamese there's a saying that goes "Của bền tại người", which roughly translates to "durability depends on the person". Something won't last long if it's not handled with care and that's only in the hands of the person owning it. Congrats on repairing instead of just replacing!
Thanks so much for sharing your memories of your Mum. They are so precious. When my mum passed it was a rollercoaster of emotions but lovely to now hold onto the positive creative mindset she encouraged :)