More Than a Mum

by Charlene Allcott

  35

  I STOOD OUTSIDE WEIGHING up whether I should use the key. I thought it might seem confrontational to enter without knocking, but ringing the bell would seem cold. My decisions had made even the smallest actions feel impossible. I was still debating how to enter when the door opened. It was Mickey. He didn’t greet me or indicate that I should come in. I only knew him to be unnaturally animated, and Mickey’s stillness in that moment made me uneasy. I was at the part in the movie when you know something terrible, something loud and violent, is about to occur. Mickey held a tea towel, an old one I used for dusting. He dried his hands carefully before saying, ‘He’s resting.’

  ‘I need to talk to him,’ I said. Mickey didn’t move. He tucked the tea towel into his back pocket.

  ‘He didn’t sleep. I think it would be better if you came back later. Can you at least do that for him?’ This was when the guilt took over. Mickey, a man whose moral compass couldn’t find north, was judging me. It was more than I could take.

  ‘Dylan!’ I shouted. I didn’t care about waking him. I’d done so much damage; waking him up would be a rain shower following an earthquake. Mickey shook his head and whispered something about respect, as if he had any understanding of that. I pushed past him and raced down the hall. I thought he might pull me back, bar me from entering my own home. I felt a rush of energy; I was ready to fight if necessary. I had my head down as I flew up the stairs, and didn’t see Dylan until he caught me by the shoulders. He was barely awake; certainly he had been conscious less than five minutes. I could tell by the fact that his eyes weren’t quite focused. We all stood in silence, waiting to hear the first thing he would say.

  ‘I need coffee.’

  We filed into the kitchen. As I sat in one of the chairs, I recalled the day we found them in an independent shop in Islington. We were only meant to be there for ideas. The plan was to gather up inspiration and take it to Wembley, where we could get the same in Ikea at a price we could almost afford. I remember stroking the smooth resin, noting how well the quirky duck-egg blue colour would match the kitchen tiles and knowing we would never get the same. As I had predicted, we didn’t find anything in the flat-pack theme park on the outskirts of London, and we sat on empty crates until a week later, when a man arrived with a delivery slip for me to sign. I stood in stunned silence as my chairs were carried through the house. They were even more beautiful than I remembered; I don’t think I had allowed myself to see how lovely they really were. ‘How? When? Why?’ I stuttered. Dylan didn’t answer my questions but his shy smile told me the answer to the last one – to make me happy.

  Now, as I watched my husband move around the room to make the coffee, he wasn’t smiling. I felt a stab of anxiety that I might never see it again. I was transfixed by the careful way he poured milk into the cups and the time he took to ensure the sugar was level before tipping it from the spoon. It was like I was watching him for the first time. Mickey stood sentry, leaning against the counter with his arms folded.

  Dylan made me a drink without asking and hundreds of memories rushed back. I thought of the second time we spent the night together. We woke in his house, a grubby terrace he shared with Mickey and a small, skittish guy called Pete. Dylan got out of bed and sheepishly pulled on his pants. He rubbed his head and averted his eyes as he asked, ‘You want coffee?’

  ‘I’ll always want coffee,’ I had answered.

  Dylan sat in the seat opposite mine; he wrapped his hands round the mug. I waited for him to blow on it but he didn’t.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. I wondered how many times I would have to say it before it felt like enough.

  ‘I know,’ said Dylan. He didn’t, how could he? Even at the worst of times he was assuming the best. ‘Is it worth asking what happened? What I did?’ I reached towards him, but thought better of it and left my hand on the table.

  ‘You didn’t do anything, Dylan. I promise this isn’t about you.’ He nodded. I knew it was a gesture to quieten me rather than one of agreement.

  ‘Course you didn’t, mate,’ said Mickey.

  ‘Could you just let us talk, Mickey?’ I was begging. I was appealing to a side of him that I wasn’t sure existed. I had never really liked Mickey. He was coarse and immature and I worried that he might lead Dylan into something untoward, but I loved him because he cared for Dylan so much. On many occasions I wondered why my husband kept him around, but now I understood it was because no quality was as valuable as loyalty.

  ‘Talk about what, love?’ said Mickey. ‘This rat you’ve been creeping around with? Where is he? Bloody coward.’

  ‘Please, Mickey,’ I said again.

  ‘It’s OK. Leave us for a while,’ said Dylan. Mickey bristled.

  ‘Are you sure, mate?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Dylan looked at me as he said this, and I was suddenly unsure I wanted Mickey to go. All the sadness and hurt I saw in him, I didn’t want to be alone with it. Mickey threw the tea towel on the counter.

  ‘I’ll be back to check on my casserole,’ he said. He shot me a warning look before walking away, but it was unnecessary; there was no more hurt I could cause.

  ‘Babe—’ I said. He interrupted.

  ‘You don’t get to call me that. Not any more.’ I felt the tears warm on my cheeks and I was surprised there were any left in me. Dylan didn’t move. I had treated him as if he was weak, but he was stronger than I knew.

  ‘You can ask me anything,’ I said.

  ‘Why didn’t you answer my calls?’

  ‘I didn’t know what to say.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘I still don’t. Apart from I’m sorry.’ Dylan took a sip of his drink. I knew it was still too hot, must have burned his mouth, but he didn’t show it. I had never allowed myself to imagine how he would react when he found out but I assumed there would be anger, screamed accusations, maybe objects thrown. The cold, stoic man before me was worse than I imagined. He placed the mug back on the table, and twisted it round until the handle was facing towards me and I could no longer see the words ‘World’s Best Dad’ on the side.

  ‘Do I know him?’ he asked.

  ‘What? No!’ His cheeks filled with air, which he released slowly and evenly.

  ‘That’s something. The thought of it being someone I’ve seen … spoken to. I thought it was that Carter.’

  ‘Carter! For God’s sake, no.’

  ‘So, who is he?’

  ‘Dylan, it doesn’t matter. I mean, he isn’t the point, not really. I’m tired. I’m so tired all the time and I feel lonely in my own home and I’m pissed off every day. I don’t like who I am when I’m with … when I’m here.’ I reached towards him again and he swiped the mug in the act of pulling away. Coffee slopped on to the table. Dylan stood up. ‘Leave it,’ I said. I felt so tired. I knew if I put my head on the table I would sleep, deeply and for a long time. Dylan raised a finger, like he did when he admonished the girls when they were little.

  ‘No. You do not get to tell me what to do.’ He moved to the sink and picked up a cloth hanging over the taps. He wiped up the spill carefully, and then folded the cloth and placed it on the counter. ‘It’s not unreasonable,’ he said when he sat down. ‘You’re at work all the time. Everything is about work.’

  ‘No, Dylan. That was real.’

  ‘But the rest of it wasn’t. Me and the girls, that was all make-believe.’

  ‘That’s not what I’m saying.’

  ‘What are you saying?’ He clasped his hands together, like he was waiting for his yearly appraisal. I put my head in my hands and prayed for inspiration. Why hadn’t I planned in advance what I would say? I looked up at him.

  ‘When we met, I was a different person.’ I didn’t see any understanding in his expression, and why would I? I had changed but he hadn’t, not really. He had remained the same; through the kids and the challenges he was always just Dylan. ‘I don’t know if this is what I need any more.’

  ‘What you need?’ I started to res
pond but he repeated the words, a hard edge creeping into his voice. ‘What you need? You’re fine. The girls are fine. You don’t need anything. It’s about what you want. This wasn’t what I planned. I had dreams, you know …’ That surprised me, but I believed him.

  ‘Why didn’t you talk to me? We could have worked on them together.’

  ‘You mean you could have told me what to do.’ And in that moment, I saw another Dylan – a Dylan who wasn’t only someone’s husband or someone’s father. ‘It doesn’t matter now, I guess.’ I didn’t know the answer to that. ‘You should go,’ he said.

  ‘I want to wait for the girls. We should explain to them together.’

  ‘No, I don’t want to upset them. We’ll say you’re on another work trip.’ I thought I heard a stress on ‘another’ but I might have imagined it. It seemed I was good at that.

  ‘Please, Dylan.’ A cough came from behind me. Mickey walked in and pulled open the oven door; a meaty aroma filled the room. He bent down to peer inside and, despite the heat, didn’t stop examining it until I pushed back my chair and stood up.

  ‘Can we speak tomorrow?’ I asked Dylan. He nodded.

  ‘Bye, Mickey,’ I said as I left the room.

  ‘Alison,’ he replied curtly.

  36

  I WANDERED AROUND THE neighbourhood, noticing details I had long ago filtered out. The front gardens that had been cultivated with so much care over many years, and the dilapidated cafe, owned by Carmel who made a fresh Victoria sponge every morning. I hated Frank in that moment. He had distracted me from what I had and made me think I needed something else. I found myself at a bus stop and boarded the first one that arrived. The driver barely made eye contact as I presented my debit card. It felt like there was something repellent about me, a thing I had tried to push down for years that had finally risen to the surface, oozing out of me – thick and putrid. I sat in a seat near the back and watched the scenes of London roll by. I felt safe on that bus, but I was aware the whole time that at some point I would have to get off. I’d been taking London buses alone since I was a small child. A sudden house move had Mum and me living several miles from my primary school. Not wanting to leave my friends, I begged her to let me stay, but it meant a solo bus trip home on the days that she worked. Often I would ride the route several times; I’d chat to the driver as he smoked and waited for the timetable to catch up with him. There was an old lady who would get on at the Tesco and give me an extra-strong mint. I didn’t like the taste but I enjoyed the experience – so minty they felt hot, or maybe it was the part when she pressed it into my hand, closing my fist tight around the sweet to make sure it was secure; probably that. The bus, with its strangers, was more homely than my empty house, where I knew the key would have grown cold under the doormat and I’d have only slightly manic children’s TV presenters to keep me company. They made me anxious; they still did when the girls were small. Something about their perpetual joy was unnerving. I imagined that when the cameras were off they would sink to the floor like deflated balloons. I rode the buses until we moved in with Eddie. Even though I was timid and monosyllabic around him at first, I liked that he gave me someone to come back to. Occasionally, I would sit in the hall and listen to the tapping of his keyboard from his home office next to the kitchen. I felt like I belonged to someone, which was why I felt so betrayed when he left. I understood it was the same with Frank, and I wanted to tell him that. I didn’t call him. I knew he wouldn’t pick up and I believed I was owed more. Seeing Dylan and facing up to the shock and discomfort of what I had done – Frank needed to do that too. I got off the bus.

  I’d never thought about a doorbell being refined before. Frank’s was – clear, not too high-pitched – in stark contrast to mine, which had been left on ‘Jingle Bells’ since Christmas 2014. Everything was so still I could hear the rustle of the leaves; somehow I knew he wasn’t there. I was nearly at the gate when I heard the door open. I turned slowly, giving myself time to prepare, and there she was. Taller than me – most people are – but not by much. Her dark hair was in a long braid over one shoulder. On the other rested the head of a child.

  ‘He’s not here,’ she said, and then, with a small sigh of resignation, ‘Let me put this one down.’ She went back inside and I followed. ‘I take it you know where the kitchen is?’ She didn’t wait for me to respond before taking the stairs. I thought leaving me alone in the hallway was careless; I could have been there to do her harm, more than I already had. Perhaps she was too trusting; maybe she no longer cared. I walked through to the kitchen, purposefully looking ahead and not at the spot where we had made love. Not that it had been that, not unless love can be made independently. The kitchen was light and modern. I didn’t sit down; I knew I hadn’t been invited. I could hear her talking to the baby in a comforting, melodic way. Then nothing, and I didn’t know she was there until she offered me a drink. She didn’t walk, she glided – quickly, almost silently. I hadn’t responded to the question, but she still pulled out two mugs and brewed us each a strong cup of tea. The sort of woman who knew what was needed in every situation. She placed one cup on the island in front of a high stool and took the one opposite. I sat where she had quietly instructed and, for the second time that day, I was face to face with my conscience.

  ‘I’m—’

  She had been drinking but stopped to shake her head. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Don’t say sorry. It will mean nothing.’ She wasn’t angry, or at least she didn’t project that. She was calm and also very sad. The sadness filled the room and my lungs and made it difficult to speak.

  ‘OK.’ I was hurt, even though I had no right to be. I had always taken a dim view of people who blamed the mistress – not her relationship, not her responsibility – but in that room I accepted my blame because, yes, this woman was a stranger, but it didn’t mean I owed her nothing. People need to earn the right to be treated like shit.

  ‘Are you OK?’ she asked. I still wonder where she found the compassion to ask. I think she felt a sense of responsibility. He was her husband; she was accountable. We do this. Make our partners’ deeds our own.

  ‘I am sorry,’ I said. The mask of kindness lifted then and I caught a glimmer of something else. I thought it was contempt but now I think it may have been boredom. Her face wasn’t easily readable and her features distracted me from the task. A wide mouth, huge dark eyes and a delicate nose, as if she had handpicked the features from different faces – each beautiful but not meant to be together. ‘Do you know everything?’ I wanted to understand how much she hated me. She shrugged wearily. She wasn’t all that forgiving – I just wasn’t particularly significant to her. I was simply a tool through which her husband revealed his flaws.

  ‘Has he done this before?’ But I knew the answer. The amount of callousness he had shown me took practice. You had to be entirely comfortable with disregarding someone to do it so easily.

  ‘We’ve had our problems,’ she said – a politician’s answer. I had no time for euphemisms.

  ‘How many times?’ Her look told me that I was crossing a line and she was right, but I had crossed so many, I could see no reason to stop. It became important to me to know how insignificant I was. I wanted the facts to validate the pain I was in.

  ‘Fine,’ she said. There was a bowl of fruit on the table. She picked a couple of shrivelled grapes from the bunch and walked over to a bin in the corner. When she waved her hand, it opened and she let the fruit fall. ‘When we met he was married,’ she said as she sat down. ‘I was over here doing a master’s. I’m from Brazil.’ I heard it then, the otherness in her voice – another layer, her own story. ‘I was so homesick, and the weather! You think the weather thing is a joke until you live through it. I hadn’t packed properly and I didn’t have enough money for a decent coat, and one day I was shivering in the rain and Frank came over and gave me his. When I returned it, he took me for dinner.’ I wish I had asked more questions about her, or at least examined why I didn’t want to know m
ore. I think I knew that I would have learned what I did that day – that Frank likes to rescue people and our relationship had not been about me at all. ‘I did pressure him to marry me. I needed a visa and I wanted the commitment. That’s why I’ve been so forgiving, I believe.’ The women who stay are stupid, that’s what I always thought – stupid, weak or both – but this woman wasn’t stupid; she spoke carefully and articulately. And she looked me in the eye and accepted my presence with grace. She certainly wasn’t weak. I was the weak one, the one who had thrown everything away because someone had shown me a little attention.

  ‘Is that when it started, when you were married?’ I remember telling everyone that marriage wouldn’t change anything, but it did. It was like securing your seatbelt on a plane; you know that if it crashes you’ll be obliterated, and some metal and a bit of nylon won’t prevent that, but it still feels better. I guess for some people that belt seems like bondage. She shrugged again. At first I thought she was being dismissive but then recognized the gesture as acceptance. She knew that every person, and so by default every relationship, has flaws, and this was the one she had been assigned. I felt angry for her and myself.

  ‘You don’t have to put up with this,’ I said. ‘He has money, you can leave him.’ In that moment she was my ally. I didn’t know her at all really, but we were bonded in such an intimate, private way that I was genuinely invested in her wellbeing. ‘I could help, be a witness or something.’ She laughed. It was quiet and pretty but very genuine.