by Sue Margolis
“Yeah,” Ben said, “and then she told us the nativity story, but I remembered it from playgroup.”
“Me, too,” Arthur piped up, clearly not wishing to appear uninformed.
“Mrs. O’Reilly,” Ben continued, “said that the three wise men brought presents for the baby Jesus and one of them got him aftershave.”
“Really? I didn’t know that.”
“Yeah, it’s called Franky’s Scents.”
Just then Klaudia called up to the kids to tell them tea was ready. The boys sprang to their feet. Clearly, paying homage to the Christ child couldn’t compete with the unholy delights of a plate of sausages and oven chips. They thundered hippopotamus-like down the stairs. I heard Ben begging Klaudia to let them eat in front of the TV. Knowing that I usually gave in to this demand, Klaudia didn’t put up a fight.
Still giggling to myself about Franky’s Scents, I went into my room, got changed out of my work clothes and put on a pair of joggers and a sweater. As I headed back downstairs I could hear Amy and Georgia talking at the kitchen table about getting tattoos when they were older. Georgia wanted Winnie the Pooh above her ankle, and seeing as her mother had two dolphin tattoos (one on each breast, no doubt), she didn’t think this would be a problem.
“If I asked to get a tattoo,” Amy was saying, “my dad would go mental, but Mum wouldn’t mind. She’s pretty cool.”
How about that? I wasn’t such an embarrassment to my daughter after all. In fact, I was one of the “cool” mums. For a few moments, I basked in the warm glow of self-congratulation.
“Mum,” Amy said as I came into the kitchen, “you wouldn’t mind me getting a tattoo when I’m sixteen, would you?”
“I guess not. So long as it was done safely and it wasn’t huge.”
“So a tiny butterfly at the top of my arm would be OK?”
“I think that could be cute.”
Amy looked at Georgia. “I told you she was cool.”
I was busy basking again, but Amy interrupted. “Mum, there’s no ketchup and we’re out of Coco Pops. Plus I had to have whole wheat toast for breakfast this morning.”
A quick check of the fridge and cupboards revealed that these weren’t the only things we were out of. I decided that since the kids were occupied with their friends and not clamoring for my attention, I would nip out and do a supermarket run.
• • •
I pushed my cart up and down the aisles and thought about Klaudia leaving and how she would be the fourth person to have “deserted” Amy and Ben in the last few months. My children were about to develop abandonment issues—I just knew it. They would grow up believing there was no point getting into relationships, because in the end people always walked away. They would need therapy. Who was going to pay for that? Unless our finances improved, it wasn’t going to be Greg and me. In a few years we could have two disturbed young adults on our hands and no way of providing them with the help they needed: one more thing to beat myself up about.
I reached the aisle with jams, pickles and preserves. So far, the only thing in my cart was a giant box of Tampax Super. I picked up a jar of sauerkraut and put it back. It was only Greg who liked the stuff.
I was heading towards the deli counter, wondering yet again if there was anything more Greg and I could have done to save our marriage, when I had a head-on trolley collision with another shopper. Barely looking up, I offered an “Oops-sorry-my-fault.” After a speedy disengagement, I carried on down the aisle.
“Soph?” the male voice said. “Is that you?”
I stopped and looked over my shoulder. I saw a guy about my own age in jeans and a reefer jacket. The floppy nineties hair had gone and been replaced by a short, trendy cut, but the face that smiled out from the dark stubble was unmistakable. It had aged a bit, but in a good, Brad Pitt kind of a way. There was no doubt, the man still had it goin’ on.
“Omigod! Huckleberry!”
As he came towards me, I did an about-turn with my cart. We pulled up alongside the posh Bonne Maman jams and threw our arms around each other.
“Huckleberry—I don’t believe it.”
Huckleberry. The Southern states of the U.S. probably contained a smattering of Huckleberries, but over here it was the kind of twee name a child gave his hamster. A wife in search of an affectionate pet name for her husband’s penis might happen upon Huckleberry. No parent would consider it a suitable name for their son.
Unless, of course, those parents happen to be the Taylors. In the seventies, Huckleberry’s father, Byron, had been a lecturer in American literature at the University of Norwich. His wife, Mimi, was a performance poet. They were both huge Twain fans and had apparently always planned to name their firstborn son Huckleberry.
“So, how long has it been?” I said, taking in the smoky gray eyes that had always been his trademark.
“I don’t know. How many years since we left university?”
“Too many. So how are you? What are you up to? The last I heard, you were teaching in Somalia.”
A passing old lady tutted because we were blocking the aisle. We apologized and moved ourselves and our carts closer to the shelves. I clocked that his cart contained several frozen pizzas and ready meals for one. Then I noticed my box of Tampax Super. I grabbed a jar of pickled onions and stood it in front of the box.
“Yes, I was working at a village school not far from Mogadishu.”
“So you really followed your dream.”
He looked ever so slightly awkward. Maybe these days it embarrassed him to be reminded of his former idealist self. “I guess I did,” he said.
I’d known Huckleberry since high school. Nobody dared make fun of his name. Huck was over six feet, well built and seriously good looking. Girls practically fell at his feet and he did nothing to fend them off. Huck became known as Huck the Fuck. I fancied him something rotten, but he was way out of my league. I was too scared even to speak to him.
By coincidence, we ended up at the same university: Manchester. I studied English. He did modern history. Both in the arts faculty, we found ourselves hanging out with the same crowd and going to the same parties. By then I’d had a couple of boyfriends and my confidence had improved. I wasn’t quite so scared of him anymore. That wasn’t to say I could have gone up to him and asked him out on a date. And anyway, Huck always had a gorgeous blond drama student on the go.
Despite his Huck the Fuck handle and the eat-as-much-as-you-like buffet that was his sex life, Huck was a highly intelligent, thoughtful chap. Like me, he was a member of the university Unite Against Fascism society. Occasionally, after the Thursday night meetings, the two of us would go for a drink in the student union bar and exchange views on the struggle.
Huck would tell me that he was determined to do something meaningful with his life. “I’m not interested in money. I want to be of use.” Behind his back, people said it was all a romantic, idealistic pose and took the piss. Some even did it to his face, but Huck’s determination never faltered. Straight after university he did Voluntary Service Overseas and spent several years teaching in India. Even after Greg and I were married, Huck was still sending me postcards telling me what he was up to. (Despite my denials, Greg was convinced he was an old flame who couldn’t quite let go.) When he went to Africa in the late nineties the postcards petered out.
“So, what on earth are you doing in these parts?” I asked.
“Well, after Somalia I went back to India for a few years. I was teaching slum kids in Mumbai. In the end I decided that after all these years in Africa and India, I was missing home, so about six months ago—much to my parents’ delight—I decided to come back. I applied for a job working for a charity that runs youth clubs for underprivileged kids. Long story short, I got the job.” He paused. “So, what about you? The last I heard, you were at the BBC.”
I brought him up to speed.
“Coffee Break is a great program,” he said. “I always listened to it when I came home on visits.”
“Well, the way
things are going, it may not be much longer for this world.” I explained about the plans to take it down-market.
“That’s sacrilege. You guys should think about going on strike.”
I told him that the thought had occurred. “So you’re working at a youth club around here?” I asked.
“Yes. My official title is senior manager. In other words, I’m in charge. It’s at the Princess Margaret houses.”
“Blimey. You must have your work cut out there.”
He gave a half smile. “You could say that.”
The Princess Margaret public housing projects had been built in the sixties as part of London’s slum clearance scheme. Bleak didn’t begin to describe it. Not long ago, one of the newspapers had called it “an emblem of urban decrepitude.” It consisted of acre upon windswept acre of drab impregnable concrete blocks—apparently inspired by Le Corbusier—connected by dank passageways and tight stairwells that provided refuge for addicts and muggers. There were filthy curtains behind rotten window frames, showing little sign of life.
“During the day we feed the homeless. In the evening we attempt to keep the kids living there occupied. Not that we get many turning up. Playing table tennis on a crappy old table with no net doesn’t exactly get their adrenaline pumping. It wasn’t long before I discovered that nearly every teenager there is a member of a gang. Hardly a week goes by when some kid doesn’t get knifed.”
“I know. It always makes the headlines in the local paper. What sort of a society lets children grow up in these places? You drive past and you see these beautiful, innocent babies in their buggies and wonder how they’ll end up.”
“I have that thought every day,” he said.
I was so enjoying catching up that I suggested we each finish our shopping and meet in the supermarket café for a quick cuppa. I said I couldn’t stay long because I wanted to get back to the kids and spend some time with them before bedtime.
Half an hour later we were sitting at a table looking out over the car park and drinking weak cappuccinos.
Huck asked about Amy and Ben. I took out my phone and showed him pictures. He seemed genuinely interested. “They look like great kids.”
“They are, and they’ve been through so much recently.”
“In what way?”
“Their father and I split up six months ago.”
“I’m so sorry. That must have been hard.”
“Yeah,” I said, spooning my cappuccino froth. “It wasn’t great.”
These days, I made a point of not going on about my marriage breakup. Apart from Annie and Gail and my other close friends, people weren’t interested in hearing the ins and outs of what was, after all, just another divorce saga. Huck didn’t say anything—he clearly wasn’t about to pry—but there was something about his expression that seemed to be inviting me to talk. I found myself telling him about the separation.
“I am so sorry,” he said when I’d come to the end of my tale. “What a shitty time you’ve had.”
I managed a smile. “It hasn’t been easy, but it feels like the worst is over.” By now I felt that I’d burdened him long enough with my woes. I decided to change the subject.
“So,” I said, “is there a Mrs. Huck?” Bearing in mind the frozen pizzas and ready meals for one, I sensed that there wasn’t.
He shook his head.
“Ah, same old Huck, still playing the field,” I said, grinning.
“Hardly. I’ve spent the last two decades living in huts and tents, miles from anywhere. Believe me, the field was pretty limited. I’ve had a few flings on trips back home, but that’s all they were. Plus, as you get older, you realize that casual affairs aren’t really very satisfying.”
“So there’s been nobody serious?”
“Uh-uh.”
I took a sip of coffee. “So tell me more about Africa. Why did you stop sending the postcards? I used to look forward to hearing from you.”
“I apologize,” Huck said. “It was nothing personal—honest. The thing is, when you’re working in the middle of nowhere and there’s no phone or Internet, you become very inward looking. I found myself focusing entirely on the people I was trying to help. The rest of the world didn’t seem very important. I carried on writing to my family, but that was about it. All my friends got pissed off with me. In fact a few even stopped being my friends.”
I offered him a smile. “Well, I forgive you. I totally get how you would cut off from the world.”
We carried on chatting, but I was aware that it was getting late. By now Arthur and Georgia would have been picked up. I wanted to get back to the kids for sofa and TV time. “Huck, this has been great, but I really do need to get going. My babysitter never minds working late, but I don’t like taking advantage of her good nature.”
“Of course. I shouldn’t have kept you.”
“You haven’t, honestly. I’ve really enjoyed catching up.”
“Me, too. Look, why don’t we do it again? Maybe we could meet up for a drink?”
I almost looked around to check he wasn’t asking some hot blond who had just walked in. “OK. Yes,” I said. “I’d like that.”
“Great. I’ll call you.”
I wrote my number down on a napkin and we hugged good-bye.
• • •
“A bit of me thought I’d heard wrong,” I said, chopsticks hovering over a bowl of kung pao shrimp. “I mean, you should have seen the girls he dated at university. They were stunning. They all looked like fashion models. And here he was asking me out. Me. Sophie Lawson with the nose.”
“Oh, behave,” Annie said. “The way you go on, anyone would think you were the spawn of Cyrano de Bergerac. Your nose is beautiful.”
“OK, fine. Whatever.” I moved in on a particularly plump shrimp and pincered it.
“No. Enough with the ‘whatever.’ I’ve seen the way men look at you.”
“OK,” I said, my mouth full of delicious shrimp. “I admit that I scrub up reasonably well.”
“Finally!”
“So now can I get on with telling you about Huck?”
“Tell away.”
“OK. So last night the phone goes and it’s him to say he’s working flat out until after the new year, tending to the homeless and kids from the projects, and how am I fixed for the beginning of January?”
“And you consulted your diary,” Annie said, helping herself to more Singapore noodles, “and told him you’d need to move a few things around, but you’d do your best to fit him in.”
I laughed. “Yeah, something like that. Of course, by the time I put the phone down reality had set in. There was no way he was asking me out on a date date.”
“Naturally … what with your hideous nose and all.”
“Correct. Plus it’s not like we have history or anything. We were only ever friends at school. I think now that he’s back in the UK, he’s feeling lonely. Apparently he lost touch with quite a few of his friends. He’s probably looking for people to hang out with.”
“OK, have it your own way, but if you ask me, there’s no way he’s asked you out simply because he wants to hang out and chat about old times. The man is coming on to you. A fiver says I’m right.” She spooned up some crispy beef and added it to her bowl of noodles.
“OK, you’re on,” I said, laughing.
It was the Saturday before Christmas. Rob was back from a ten-day stint in Sydney and had taken the boys to see Chelsea play Arsenal while Annie and I had lunch in Chinatown.
“So,” Annie said, “you all set for Christmas?”
I said I’d bought the kids’ presents and that the tree—always referred to in our house as the Chanukah bush—was up. “But you know me—I’ll probably buy a turkey that’s too big for the oven, run out of Scotch tape on Christmas Eve and end up wrapping presents with the aid of a stapler. Plus the house is going to be in even more of a mess than usual.” I explained that I’d had to let Mrs. Fredericks go.
“How did she take it?”
“Not well. Money’s really tight for her and she relies on her cleaning jobs. I paid her up to January, but I felt absolutely dreadful. If there had been any other way …”
“I know. Please don’t beat yourself up. You did your best. Come on, let’s change the subject. So, are you getting Greg anything for Christmas?”
I said probably not. “Doesn’t feel right, somehow. Plus, if the kids see us exchanging gifts, it might send the wrong message and make them think we’re getting back together.”
Annie said she hadn’t thought of that.
“So,” I said, “you on top of everything holiday-wise?” It was a daft question. This was the woman who had a Christmas Clock Countdown app for her phone and had started buying presents in September. Two years ago we’d gone to Annie’s for Christmas lunch. She’d made her own cheese straws, mulled her own wine, decorated the house with spicy scented candles and fresh greenery. Her goose was roasted to perfection. Ditto her spuds, honey carrots and red cabbage.
“Yeah, I think it’s pretty much under control,” she said. “The boys and I stirred the pudding last night. We’re taking it to Rob’s parents. It’ll be my contribution to lunch. All I’ve got left to do is ice the cake. And I thought I might have a go at stollen bread this year.”
“What, no mince pies?”
“Oh, I did them days ago. They’re in the freezer.”
I burst out laughing. “Of course they are. God, just listening to you makes me feel exhausted.”
“I enjoy doing Christmas. It’s about being together as a family and I want the kids to have something to remember.” She stopped herself. “Oh God. I shouldn’t have said that—what with you and Greg … I wasn’t thinking.”
I patted her hand and reminded her that for Jews—even lapsed, correction, collapsed ones like Greg and me—Christmas wasn’t that big a deal.
I topped up our wineglasses. “Annie, can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Look, you can tell me to mind my own business, but I’ve been worried about you.”
“About me? Why on earth would you be worried about me?”
“It’s just that the other day when I was over at your place with Amy and Ben, you got really angry with Freddie. It’s so unlike you to lose it with your kids. I’ve been wondering what it was about and if you’re OK.”