by Rachel Marks
‘First the mindfulness thing. Then homework. You’ve never done their homework with them before.’
‘That’s not fair.’
Kate widens her eyes.
‘OK, but Gabe’s only eight. It’s not like I’ve been idly avoiding homework for years.’
‘I’m not complaining. It’s nice.’ She gathers the two ingredients and takes a little bottle of something else out of the drawer. Whilst she’s busy and not looking at me, I brave raising the topic of ‘the kiss’ or ‘the not-quite kiss’.
‘Look, Kate. About the other night …’
Kate waves her hand. ‘It’s fine. It was an emotional night. I know you didn’t mean anything by it.’
It feels like she’s reached inside my chest and is crushing my heart in her hand. I’m not sure what I expected her to say with her husband-to-be on the other side of the patio door, but I thought there might be something, some hint of emotion in her expression. Maybe she’s just hiding it really well, but I can’t see anything.
‘Right. Shall we go and make this volcano erupt?’ she asks, as casually as if we’d just been discussing the best way to cook sprouts.
I force my head to nod and follow Kate into the garden. The boys gather around the volcano and Kate puts the ingredients into the bottle, adding what I now realize is food colouring and, after a few seconds, the red mixture spews down the sides of the volcano.
‘Wow, it looks like real lava now,’ Gabe says, his face full of glee.
Kate smiles at me and I fake a smile back. It’s completely stupid and irrational, but it just feels like another way in which she doesn’t need me, in which she’s succeeding and I’m failing.
Kate must read something in my expression because she says, ‘Thanks to the awesome volcano Daddy helped you to make, it does look real. You’ve all done a great job.’
The boys push out their chests proudly and I know I should be thankful to her for making sure I come out the winner, but I just feel even sadder that it’s come to this, that I’m having to try and win her back, that I lost her in the first place.
‘I better get back. Come and give me a cuddle, boys.’
‘You can stay for a beer if you want?’ Jerry says. Despite our conversation last week, he clearly wants to pretend we’re still the best of friends, even though we never were and never will be.
‘No, thanks. I need to go and tidy the flat before work tomorrow.’
‘You, tidy the flat? Has the real Noah been abducted by aliens?’ Kate teases, and I know she’s only joking, but I wish I’d not allowed myself to become such a mess so that I didn’t have so far to go to show her that I could still be good for her.
‘Turning over a new leaf.’ I smile half-heartedly.
I give each of the boys a kiss and a cuddle, and head back through the house and out to my car, deciding to make a detour to the pub on the way home.
*
‘Why did she have to come along and steal my thunder? Why won’t she let me have anything? First the bike and then this. I bet she spends her life slagging me off to them.’
Mimi hands me the shandy she’s just poured me. ‘Do you really think that?’
‘Well, no, but I’m just sick of being Deadbeat Dad Noah, the blotch on her otherwise pristine family. Jerry acts like he’s so fucking perfect, standing there at the stove cooking his cordon bleu meal. He was even wearing an apron, for fuck’s sake. Who the hell wears an apron?’
‘I bet you make a mean beans on toast.’ Mimi taps my hand but I pull it away.
‘See, now you’re doing it. Presuming I’m rubbish at everything.’
‘Come on, Noah. I was joking. For what it’s worth, I thought you seemed like a great dad.’
I sigh. ‘I couldn’t even make a sodding volcano.’
‘But you tried. And you went to that class and made yourself look like an idiot posing as Superman.’
I take a sip of my drink and then slump back on my bar stool.
‘Did you get a chance to ask her about the kiss?’
I shake my head. I can’t face telling her about how Kate totally dismissed it. It’s too humiliating. ‘Jerry was there the whole time.’
I lean forwards on to the bar and prop my head up on my elbow. Mimi bends down and pinches my cheek, giving it a wiggle, like you would to a child. ‘Don’t be sad. You’re almost making me feel sorry for you.’
I narrow my eyes.
‘Look, my shift finishes in about quarter of an hour. I go to yoga on a Sunday evening. Why don’t you come with me?’
‘Yoga and mindfulness in one day? What are you trying to do to me?’
‘It’s actually really good for the soul. I used to think it was a load of hippy mumbo-jumbo, but it’s calming and it makes you feel better and it’ll also give you a bod like mine.’ Mimi winks whilst running her hand down her abs.
‘I’m not sure I can trust anyone who uses the words “ good for the soul ”.’
‘Just give it a go. Think of it as part of the improvement project.’
*
Mimi picks me up an hour later. I’m not sure what you’re supposed to wear to a yoga class so I’m dressed in running shorts and a sports vest and, when I get into the car, Mimi looks me up and down with a cheeky glint in her eyes.
‘What?’
‘Nothing.’
When we arrive at the yoga centre, it’s exactly how I expected it to be. Joss sticks burning away on the windowsill, a small bamboo tree in the corner, rows of mats lined up on the wooden floor. The instructor is typically lean, her skin glowing as if she’s lit from the inside, and rather than walk around the room, she floats, calmness exuding from her every pore. To be fair to her, she’s a great advert for yoga, but I expect she probably also treats her body as a temple, existing on halloumi, chickpeas and spinach smoothies. There’s no way I could ever take things that far.
She rings a little bell and the groups of people chattering immediately stop and everyone heads to a mat, lying down and closing their eyes. Mimi gestures for me to copy so I lie down on a mat next to hers. And then for a good five minutes, nothing happens. Not a movement, not a peep from anyone. And it’s amazing how hard it is to just lie there, in silence, completely still and alone with my thoughts, without any of my usual distraction techniques to turn to.
Finally, everyone stands up. There didn’t seem to be a signal asking them to, unless I missed it, more an internal timer. But I copy them all and stand. And then the class properly begins. My body is stretched and bent into positions I didn’t even know were possible, Mimi giggling every time my bones crack or my balance wobbles.
Then at the end, they all lie down again. But this time the teacher talks everyone through a relaxation exercise and as much as my cynical brain tries to fight it, to mock it, as much as I wish it weren’t true, I feel my muscles relax and my brain calm.
*
‘See, you enjoyed it, didn’t you?’
‘I think “ enjoyed ” is a bit excessive, but it wasn’t too painful, well, not mentally anyway.’
Mimi smiles. ‘Yeah, I did notice there was a fair bit of creaking coming from your mat.’
We reach my flat and Mimi pulls up outside.
‘Now, I was thinking,’ she says, lifting up the handbrake, ‘I’ve got next weekend off. How about we tackle your flat? Clean it up, give it a fresh lick of paint? It’ll be like DIY SOS. Divorced dad improves home in attempt to win ex-wife back.’
‘You don’t want to spend your weekend off doing that.’
‘Honestly, I’m never happier than with a paintbrush in my hand.’
‘Really? I suppose it would be good to get it straight. If you’re sure you don’t mind?’
‘Absolutely not. I’d love to help. Now remember – this week, stay away from the beers and women. And keep your chakras in line.’
‘Yes, boss. You’re relishing this role, aren’t you?’
‘Maybe.’ Mimi smiles.
I open the car door and climb
out. ‘See you next weekend then.’
‘Looking forward to it. I’ll bring my colour cards.’
I shut the door and head inside. And I’m not sure whether or not it really was the cleansing effect of the yoga, but I notice I feel a hell of a lot better than I did when I left Kate’s.
CHAPTER TWELVE
‘No, no, no, no. Don’t listen to him. He pushed me first.’ Harley reaches out and puts his hand over Ethan’s mouth.
Ethan starts to cry and Harley pushes his face away. ‘He’s lying. He’s lying.’
I take Harley’s arms in my hands and move them away from Ethan. ‘Look, Harley, I’m not listening to you until you keep your hands by your sides and stop shouting at me.’
Harley jigs up and down, Ethan’s tears intensifying beside him. I wonder what would happen if I did a runner, just slipped through the door into the outdoor area and hurdled over the wooden fence.
‘But he’s lying. He’s lying.’
‘I’m not lying,’ Ethan splutters through his tears. ‘He threw a car at my head.’
Automatically, Harley’s hand returns to cover Ethan’s mouth and I gently remove it again. He yanks it from my grip and starts flapping his arms by his sides. He’s like a boiling kettle. It’s like you can physically see the bubbles, the pressure building, looking for a way out. I remember that feeling. I didn’t lash out at the other kids when I was at school, but I remember trashing the book corner once, and quite a few afternoons sat with the cushions over my head because I didn’t want to talk to anyone. I don’t remember what the triggers were. I’m not sure you even know what they are at that age, just that your tummy is burning with rage and you don’t know how to make it stop.
I take a deep breath and lift Ethan’s fringe off his face. My heart sinks when I see the angry red mark on his forehead.
‘Mrs Watson, please can you take Ethan to get an ice-pack for his head and note that he’s had a bump in the accident book?’
Mrs Watson is trying to look busy in the corner, doing the highly useful job of sorting pieces of sugar paper into colours, and she makes a song and dance about having to stop what she’s doing before slumping over and taking Ethan’s hand.
As the noise of Ethan’s crying disappears down the corridor, the tension in my shoulders eases. ‘Right, Harley, sit down on this chair beside me and tell me what’s going on.’
Harley screws up his face and crosses his arms. ‘I don’t want to sit by you.’
‘Well, then, I can always take you to sit by Mrs Jackson and you can explain things to her instead?’
Harley blows air out his nose.
‘Your choice, buddy.’
Although we both know no one’s going to choose to be sent to the head teacher.
Reluctantly, Harley sits on the chair beside me. ‘He wouldn’t let me have the car I wanted. He pushed me away.’
‘So you launched your car at his head?’
Harley nods.
‘Do you realize that’s not the way to deal with things? Can you think what might have been a better way to deal with the situation?’
Sometimes when I’m having these conversations with the children in my class, I realize what a monumental waste of breath it is. They are four. They are not going to stop mid-disagreement, ponder for a moment and think, ‘Oh yes, we were taught to walk away, to tell the teacher, to breathe in and out whilst counting to ten’ (most of the children in my class couldn’t even manage the counting, let alone the self-regulation). They are unable to stop and consider how it might make another child feel if they launch a hard object at their skull.
‘I wanted the car and he wouldn’t give it to me.’
And, in Harley’s world, it’s as simple as that.
‘But you have to share, Harley. I know it’s tricky, but when you’re at school there are lots of other children and you can’t just have what you want.’
‘I don’t want to share.’
‘Well, in school it’s not a choice. You have to.’
Harley turns around in his chair so he is facing the opposite way. ‘I’m not listening to you, stupid head.’
It may be coming from an agitated four-year-old, but being called ‘stupid head’ is surprisingly hurtful.
‘Then you can sit there until you will listen.’
I stand up to walk away and Harley starts rocking his chair so that it bashes noisily on the floor and then, just to make sure it’s impossible to ignore him, he starts shouting ‘La la la la’ at the top of his voice.
Suddenly, I’m surrounded by children.
‘I can’t concentrate.’
‘He’s making my head hurt.’
‘Mr Carlton, it’s too noisy. I don’t like it.’
Taps on my leg, pulling on my shirt, my name repeated not quite in unison, tears … I feel like covering my ears with my hands, falling to the floor and screaming ‘Stop’.
‘OK, enough.’ It’s a little louder than I was going for. Annabelle cowers in the corner and starts sniffling. Even Harley shuts up for a nanosecond.
‘Right, you, out we go. I can’t have this in the classroom.’ I take Harley’s hand, as gently as possible, conscious of the fact I forgot to renew my teachers’ union membership, and try to pull him out of the classroom.
‘No, no, no, please. I’m sorry.’ He anchors his feet by spreading his legs wide and pulls against my hand.
‘It’s not a choice, Harley. You’ve taken it too far. Come on now, don’t fight me.’
Harley grabs on to a cupboard on wheels and it starts sliding across the room with him, toy dinosaurs crashing off on to the ground.
It takes every fibre of my being to not just let him off, leave him in the classroom and ignore the protests of the other children, but I know I have to follow through now.
Finally, Harley stops pulling back. ‘I’m sorry.’ He wriggles his hand free from mine, falls to the floor and starts sobbing. The anger seems to have dissipated and what’s left is a raw sadness that’s even harder to know what to do with.
I crouch down beside him and put my hand on his shoulder. He flinches and at first I worry he’s going to punch me, but then he stands up and throws himself at me, wrapping his arms so tightly around my neck, it makes it hard to breathe. My initial reaction is to try to squirm away, but then he rests his head on my chest and his breathing starts to calm, so I just hold him until the tears have soaked my shirt and I’m pretty sure there are none left.
*
Finally, in what feels like painful slow motion, pick-up time rolls around. I send the majority of children off to their parents. Harley, still here of course, swings his bookbag around in a circle, slightly clipping Annabelle’s shoulder and causing a dramatic switch-on of the waterworks timed immaculately for the very moment her mum appears at the gate. If I were more cynical, I might believe Annabelle walked into the circling bookbag on purpose.
‘Oh, darling, what’s happened?’ Annabelle’s mum picks her up, cradles the back of her neck and pulls Annabelle to her chest.
‘Harley hit me again,’ she screams, squeezing every last drop out of the moment like an EastEnders cast member in her final scene before being killed off.
‘I didn’t. She’s lying,’ Harley shouts.
‘I’m sick of this. If this matter isn’t sorted out immediately, I’m going to take Annabelle to another school.’
What a horrifying loss – a child so full of life and charm.
‘He didn’t hit her. It was an accident. He was swinging his bookbag round and it accidentally caught Annabelle lightly on the shoulder.’ Annabelle’s mum shoots me a look that says are-you-calling-my-child-a-drama-queen so I add (in a sick-makingly saccharine tone), ‘I think she’s probably tired and in need of Mummy cuddles after a busy day at school.’
My faux-affection has little to no effect on Mrs Sampson’s mood. ‘Well, it’s not the first time, is it? He needs to think about what he’s doing. He’s out of control.’
She says it in such a wa
y that I picture Harley as a rabid beast, on the loose with intent to kill. By contrast, he is standing next to me with his bookbag placed sensibly over his shoulder, the stillest I’ve ever seen him. I want to high-five him behind my back.
‘With all due respect, Mrs Sampson, he doesn’t exactly look out of control now, does he? Harley had a few problems settling in, I recognize that, but we have put measures in place and he is working hard and making good progress.’
The image of the bump on Ethan’s head flashes through my brain but I push it to the side. The truth is, I wouldn’t really want Finn in a class with Harley either, but Annabelle’s mum gets right on my wick. And, much to my surprise, I feel protective of Harley, like he needs someone fighting his corner sometimes.
‘Well, I’ll be keeping a close eye on things and if he hurts Annabelle again, I’ll be in to see Mrs Jackson.’
Ooh, I’m trembling in my shoes.
‘Of course. Have a good evening.’
Mrs Sampson storms off, still cradling Annabelle, and glares at Emma who is now walking towards us.
‘How’s he been today?’ she asks, for the first time ever making eye contact.
I hate telling parents when their children have been in trouble, especially when I sense they’re as fragile as Emma, but I know I have a responsibility to keep her in the loop about his regular outbursts.
‘He got into an altercation about a car and unfortunately he did end up hurting the other little boy with it.’
I can almost see Emma’s defences coming up. ‘He’s fine at home. I don’t know why he’s playing up so much at school.’
It’s a common parent approach – ‘Well, he’s great for me so it must be something you’re doing wrong’ – but I get it. It’s much harder to admit you might be partly responsible.
‘He just seems to see red quite easily and it feels like he’s not sure how to handle it. Does he not get angry at home, then?’
‘Not really. I mean, he has tantrums sometimes, but what child doesn’t?’
I nod, proceeding gently. ‘Is there anything going on that might be making him feel angry? Even if you don’t see it much at home?’