The Lost Child: A Mother's Story

Many teenagers go through a phase in which they take an irrational dislike to their parents, suddenly finding them embarrassing and, in extreme cases, even despicable. An impartial observer will usually take the side of the parent and wait patiently for the child to grow out of it. Of course one does occasionally come across parents who are genuinely unlikeable, despicable and embarrassing, but most of them would not advertise the fact by writing a book like The Lost Child. Although ostensibly about her son Jake, it is much more revealing about herself. It is hard to disagree with Mr Rifkind’s description of her as brutal, selfish and mercenary. At one point Myerson describes what used to happen if she refused to give her dope-smoking son any money. ‘He sits on my study floor, his whole body blocking the door, his eyes on my face, smiling because he knows I won’t be able to write a word.’ I too found this image haunting and moving, although not for the same reasons as Myerson. In my experience the one thing that most habitual marijuana users have in common is low aspirations and lack of application. If only young Jake Myerson had demanded more money and sat it out for longer, his mother would never have been able to finish this book, or any other book for that matter. In any case he can no longer be relied on to induce even temporary writer’s block, as he is now understandably reluctant to see Myerson at all, let alone smile at her for hours on end. In an ideal world the Arts Council could intervene and offer to pay her for not writing, but this would not be permissible under its current remit. Its stated aim is to get great art to more people by investing in artistic experiences that enrich people’s lives, on the grounds that great art makes life better. (I doubt whether anyone reading The Lost Child could honestly describe it as an artistic experience, and the only person likely to be enriched by it is Myerson herself.) Unless it extends its activities to keeping bad books away from as many people as possible, its hands are tied. For some reason most commentators have speculated about Myerson’s reasons for publishing her tawdry, self-serving little book. Surely her motives are obvious. When being interviewed on Newsnight she looked shifty each time money was mentioned and claimed defensively that she ‘just had to’ write this book. Although writing about painful experiences can be cathartic, there can surely only be one reason why she felt she ‘just had to’ try to get it published. If she is to be believed, her son suffered from an irresistible compulsion to take drugs. She seems to be implying that she felt similarly compelled to throw him out of the house and write a book about what a hard time she has had. It is difficult to be sure what made her do it, but I put it down to a combination of greed, exhibitionism and self-indulgence. Having spent years making money out of writing about her children she seems to have found it impossible to stop even when this might cause serious damage to those around her. She clearly has more in common with her son than she would like to think. For me the more interesting question is why her son started taking drugs in the first place. After watching her trying to justify herself on Newsnight earlier this week I suddenly felt rather depressed and decided to have a whisky to cheer myself up. As I sipped at it I began to understand what poor Jake must have been through. After being exposed to his mother’s smug obtuseness for only a few minutes I had felt in urgent need of a drink. If it is true that people take drugs to escape from reality then I can quite see why he began to use them after years of being trapped in the same house as this ghastly woman for years on end. The only mystery is why it took him so long to start. In the book he comes across as no worse than many teenagers, and my guess is that he will stop taking drugs sooner or later. Myerson, on the other hand, is too old to change and is likely to remain a second-rate writer and a third-rate