by Sue Nicholls
Be Careful What You Wish For
SUE NICHOLLS
DISCLAIMER
All the characters in this book are from my imagination. Any similarity to persons alive or dead is coincidental
Copyright © 2017 Sue Nicholls
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-9997539-0-0
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
With gratitude to my family: Husband Dave, Daughter Helen and parents Meg and Reg, for reading and commenting with honesty. And my talented daughter Stephanie for her fantastic cover design. Also, to my dear husband, Dave, for his patience and financial and moral support - and his photography skills.
Belinda Hunt of Mardibooks got me started on my writing journey and taught me so much. My eternal thanks to her for this great gift.
Finally, I could not have achieved this novel without the help of my Buddhist practice. For further information and to find absolute happiness, visit https://www.sgi.org/ or https://sgi-uk.org/
DEDICATION
This book is dedicated to my long-suffering family, who endured late laundry, burnt dinners and missed appointments in sacrifice to my writing.
'Every normal person in fact, is only normal on the average. His ego approximates to that of the psychotic in some part or other and to a greater or lesser extent.' Sigmund Freud
THE MEETING
Chapter 1
The broad staircase of the small theatre is purple-shabby. Fee’s footsteps are hushed by the fading carpet, and she glides her fingers along a hand-rail polished smooth by countless others before her. She is trying to suppress anxiety about her small daughter. Kitty has just waved goodbye from among several other little ones, variously sucking thumbs, hopping, and looking expectant. There is no indication that Kitty is worried by the bossy woman running the drama class, so Fee decides to focus on the benefits of this new activity.
She sweeps her eyes over the muted foyer. There are people, but not many for a Saturday. Through a smoked glass wall to her left are spectral outlines of diners and drinkers in the cafe-cum-restaurant where she’s decided to pass these forty minutes of Kitty’s absence. She heads for the scent of coffee.
Waiting for a skinny cappuccino she scans the busy room for a vacant table and spots one on the far side, next to a couple of women, chatting amid a tumble of squashy bags and folded coats. She fixes her eyes on the spot, hoping nobody will grab it before she gets her order, which seems to be taking a ridiculous amount of time to produce. It is 1990 for goodness sake, surely it is possible to make a simple cup of coffee.
From the corner table a boy-child makes a tottering bid for freedom. One of the two women reaches out and grabs him by the arm. Her flossy locks bounce in the soft light. The other girl, Mediterranean in colouring, sips from a thick, white cup, and pushes a buggy back and forth.
Fee weaves between diners to bag her spot and drapes her jacket over the back of a chair. The two women at the next table are worrying about the officious drama teacher and It’s hard not to eavesdrop.
There is a muffled squawk from the buggy and the petite and appealing, olive skinned girl bends to the small hollow of the pram and extracts a tiny, lolling infant with cappuccino coloured skin and a dandelion clock of black hair. She places the infant on her shoulder and rocks her body, patting its back. The new-born raises its wobbly head, belches and ejects a glob of creamy white liquid before subsiding again onto the sweet and slippery shoulder. Fee grabs the napkin from her saucer.
‘Here, let me,’ she offers, and soaks up what she can from the coat.
‘Thanks very much.’ The young woman screws her head in Fee’s direction. ‘If you could take Lucas a moment, I’ll get this thing off.’
Fee accepts the child, and as the girl shrugs off her pea jacket, regrets wearing her Burberry sweater.
A familiar aroma of milk and lotion rises from the tiny bundle, and Fee finds herself enveloping him in her arms, and staring, fascinated, into the tiny face with its curdled-milky chin.
The flossy mother sits passively on the opposite side of the table with a small boy on her lap. His eyelids droop, and his chubby digits twist and tug at a lock of the straw-coloured hair, draped over her slender shoulders.
‘I’d forgotten how that happens,’ Fee remarks. ‘At the time, you think you’ll never forget but you do.’
‘He’s so sicky. I should have learned by now.’ The girl smiles a huge and open grin. ‘Thanks, so much for your help.’ She holds out her arms for the child and Fee passes him back.
‘I’m Millie.’ She proffers a small hand under her son and they shake fingers. Millie indicates the other mother with a small movement of her head as she shifts the baby and sits back down.
‘Twitch and I are waiting for our older children; they’re upstairs doing a drama class with a terrifying lady.’ She makes a comical face.
Fee remains standing looking down at her. ‘Me too. She was pretty terrible, wasn’t she? I hope they’re OK.’
Across the table, Twitch, her young son dozing on her lap, regards Fee comfortably - not ‘Nervous Twitch’ then. ‘Come and join us?’ Her voice is deeper than her wraithlike features suggest. Fee slides into a seat.
Huddled in her corner, dark haired Millie breast feeds, and tells with engaging openness of her family. She has two mixed race offspring, Olivia upstairs, and the pukey baby. Her husband, Mick, is from Ghana. She drapes a terry nappy over her shoulder and winds Lucas without mishap then gathers him to her.
‘So, what about you, Fee?’ She asks as she buttons her shirt. ‘Do you only have your little girl or is there a New Man at home with a brood of others?’ She pronounces the words New Man, like the MC at a function.
‘There’s just Kitty. She’s plenty for me – us. I work full time so having another baby would be a strain.’ She avoids tackling the New Man reference. ‘How about you, Twitch?’
‘I’ve got the two. I’m just beginning to raise my eyes towards the future again, I feel as if I’ve been surrounded by nappies and feeding routines forever!’
‘What might you do?’ Millie gazes at the translucent eyelids of her son.
‘Oh, I don’t know. Escape.’ Millie looks up and she and Fee regard Twitch in silence. Twitch looks at them both with a hopeless expression. ‘Sorry. I can’t think about anything else at the moment. I shouldn’t have said that. You hardly know me – I hardly know you.' She shrugs her shoulders. 'I hardly know anyone!’
Fee leans on the table with both arms and bends towards her new acquaintance but Twitch is backing off.
‘It's just the usual stuff: boredom, inattentive husband, abandoned career.’ She flaps a hand in the air as though batting at a wasp.
‘Well, if you ever need a shoulder…’ Millie smiles.
‘Thanks.’ Twitch gives a forlorn smile and picks up her cup.
The remaining forty minutes pass in small talk then Millie, with Lucas on her shoulder, drags her buggy to a space beside the bottom step, and they make their way up the stairway, hoping the lesson has been a success.
A crowd of boys and girls muddle out of the room, full of excitement, and Fee forgives the teacher. She is human after all.
They retrace their steps passing portraits and landscapes by local artists, on the walls of the corridor. The older children dance ahead, already friends, and the women, less impetuous, agree to meet again next week then part, each in a different direction.
Fee grasps Kitty’s hand, and heads for the underground car park. When she glances back through the glass entrance doors, T
witch’s straw-coloured hair and ochre skirt catch her eye, swinging from side to side like pampas grass.
The parking floor is gloomy, and their footsteps echo off concrete walls.
‘What did you do today, my poppet?’
‘Well, we had to be tiny.’ Kitty releases Fee’s hand and stops to crouch into a ball. ‘Then we had to be tall.’ She takes a few steps and throws her arms into the air. ‘Then we made ourselves as wide as a tree.’ Her arms fly out to become branches, ‘and really, really thin like a pencil.’ This calls them to a complete stop as Kitty holds her breath and stands to attention, her whole being focused on narrowness. Fee needs to get on, there is a mound of work to do, but first, Kitty has a swimming lesson.
‘Show me when we get home Kitty.’ She opens the car door.
Has Paul started the chores? She suspects he's still in bed, and sighs as she settles in the driver’s seat.
During the short journey to the sports centre, Fee worries about what will greet her at home, and Kitty chirrups away in the back seat.
Chapter 2
Paul slumbers in the empty double bed, luxuriating in his solitude, half wondering what time it is. Today he plans to acquaint himself with his recent acquisition, an old, Matchless motorcycle.
There’s a clatter from downstairs, and the front door bangs. His eyelids flick open. Christ. Fee’s home. She wanted him to do something or other, he riffles through his memory, oh yes, wash up the breakfast stuff. Paul screws his head round at the clock on his bedside table. Its digital figures glare 11:30. He leaps from his cocoon and dashes naked to the bathroom, locking the door behind him. Twisting the knob of the shower he climbs into the not-yet-warm water, singing enthusiastically and scrubbing himself in the manner of a man who has been up for ages. When he’s finished, he towels himself with vigour. On the wide landing he pauses and casts his eyes to the bottom of the stairs, meeting the accusing gaze of his wife.
‘I’m on my way down.’ Paul’s eyebrows lift and his chin juts and shakes. Fee turns away towards the kitchen in silence. Cursing, he rubs the towel over his bushy chest and pads into the bedroom.
The solid, fitted wardrobes and quality curtains in this spacious room always please him, less so its unfortunate pink colour. All credit to Fee’s father, he came up trumps when he bought this house five years ago for their wedding present. Fee had accepted the gift with reluctance but Paul, who came from humble beginnings, was overwhelmed.
The clattering of dishes floats up from the kitchen. Well, if she is doing the washing up, he can get straight out to the bike. He drags on grimy clothing and stuffs a battered cigarette packet into a pocket. Leaving the bed unmade and the bedroom in curtained darkness he gallops, whistling, downstairs to make a cuppa.
Fee stands at the sink with her back to him. As he steps into the kitchen Kitty, his inconvenient little monkey, throws herself at his legs, wrapping her arms round his knees then releasing him.
'Daddy. Have you just got up?’ Without waiting for an answer, she rushes on. ‘Guess where we’ve been?’
‘I give in.’ He crouches to squint into her mischievous eyes. ‘Where have you been?’
‘Swimming, silly. Can’t you see my hair is wet and my eyes are red?’ She opens her eyes wide, looking demented.
‘Well,’ Paul moves his head at an angle and concentrates. ‘Ye-e-s, I see what you mean, but they’re not red, they’re bright green. I think you must have turned into an alien!’
Kitty giggles and tries to hug him.
‘Careful you little monster, you’ll have me over.’ He shoots out a hand to avoid landing on his backside.
With a grin Kitty lifts her hands and pushes his shoulders until they are both rolling on the kitchen floor behind Fee.
‘Next week I’m doing swimming on Tuesday evenings ‘cos I’m doing drama on Saturdays. Can you take me sometimes Daddy?’ Paul gives a bear growl and pins Kitty to his chest. ‘I expect so,’ he says absent mindedly and blows a raspberry into her ear.
Outside, someone is practising on a trumpet, its honking notes sound worse than a cow in labour.
Fee continues with the washing up, ignoring the noise, and her family writhing behind her. 'Kitty sweetheart, would you get your swimming things out of the bag and put them in the basket by the washing machine please?’
Kitty’s face still beams as she scrambles up and goes back into the hall.
Paul leaps to his feet and grabs the handle of the back door. ‘I’ll be in the garage, give me a shout when lunch is ready.’ He opens the door and hops onto the path, his tea forgotten. The trumpet reaches an agonising crescendo.
***
He extracts dripping pieces of engine from a bowl of detergent and lays them on newspaper then takes a swig from an old bottle of Coke, wondering if he could put the carburettors in the dishwasher.
Through the window he sees a small figure with faltering steps approaching along the path and bearing a plate of sandwiches. Paul smiles. When Fee is out, he and Kitty have huge amounts of fun. Recently they have been practising on Kitty’s new bicycle. Together they career across the lawn, plunging occasionally into the pond, then slopping through the house leaving muddy puddles for Fee to clean up.
Paul applies an old toothbrush to bits of metal and his thoughts move to Fee. She seems to have lost her libido, and her sense of humour. He can cope though, he still has the fundamentals: his bike, his garage, his fags, his daughter, and not too much domestic hassle.
Kitty reaches the side door and he sweeps it open.
‘Ah,’ he makes a dashing bow, ‘Thank you waitress.’ Kitty reaches to tilt the platter onto the bench and when it is safe, he spins her round to face the bike and lifts her by her armpits. ‘What do you think of Daddy’s other baby?’ They study the skeleton that is his motor bike.
‘Does it go?’ Kitty sounds dubious.
‘Well not yet but wait ‘til it’s finished then it’ll go like a rocket. I might take you for a ride if I can find a helmet to fit you.’
‘Mummy says I’m not big enough to go on the back of a bike.’
Paul dangles her feet back to the ground. ‘Well we’ll keep it a secret from Mummy.
‘How about giving me a hand?’
The little girl turns a worried face up to him. ‘Won’t I get dirty?’
Paul wiggles his fingertips in her armpits,
‘You’re already grubby, look.’
She giggles.
He takes a grimy bite of his sandwich. Cheese and pickle, his favourite. His woman knows how to please him. Perhaps he’ll have a try in the sex department tonight, after a beer or two in the pub.
***
It's later than he'd planned. Paul waves his key round the lock until it finds its home. The door gives under his weight and he stumbles into the hall. Throwing his keys on the table with a jangle he negotiates the stairs on all fours and staggers into the dark warmth of the bedroom.
The shadowy outline of Fee’s slumbering body under the duvet entices him and he fumbles to remove his trousers. In his desperation, he over-balances and falls with a grunt onto the bed. Fee stirs and moans.
‘What time is it?’
Far away, on this cusp between today and tomorrow, someone is having a party. Faint rock music floats through the night air.
'About 11,’ he lies, and slides under the covers. Reaching out a hand, he lands it determinedly on Fee’s warm breast. She yelps and rolls away.
‘You’re freezing. And you reek of cigarettes.’
‘Aw, come on love, you’re awake now, and we don’t need to get up in the morning.’ Fee groans and turns to him.
Chapter 3
Lucas is asleep and Millie rocks his buggy and talks. Twitch’s Josh is between table legs with a pile of plastic dinosaurs, chuntering to himself in triceratops language.
As ever the table is cluttered with debris, although there is a small oasis of space in front of Fee. She and Twitch, shoulder to shoulder, are showing Millie their full atte
ntion.
‘It’s his mum who’s the problem. Well there’s nothing wrong with her per se, she’s been good to Mick - brought him up on her own after his dad died.’ She pauses and drops her chin into a palm braced on her elbow. ‘The trouble is, Mick thinks she's right about everything.
‘That must be hard.’ Twitch puts a hand to her son’s silky head but keeps her gaze on Millie as he walks a dinosaur up her thigh.
‘It’s difficult because I want to go back to work. Mick’s mum says my place is with the kids. She wants me to stay at home, as she never could.’
Fee leans towards her new friend, and the sharp edge of the table digs into her breasts.
‘Do you have something in mind?’
‘Well, it’s stupid I suppose.’ Millie’s brimming eyes scan Fee’s face. ‘Mick’s a chef. He’s been teaching me to cook. I think he hoped an interest in food would make me more content to stay at home.’ She switches her eyes to Twitch, ‘Don’t get me wrong, I love my kids. It just didn’t occur to me I wouldn’t go out to work. The more they try to stop me, the more frustrated I get. Now I hate everything about being at home.’
Fee nods her comprehension.
‘So now I can cook, the thing I’d really love to do is open my own restaurant. I don’t suppose Mick meant that to happen!’ Despite her tears Millie smiles. ‘Ironic, isn’t it?’
‘Have you told him?’
‘There’s no point. I know what he’ll say’ She gazes down at the baby it his carry-cot. ’Do you think a woman should sacrifice her ambition for her children?’
Twitch’s responds with uncharacteristic vehemence, ‘No. You must do what’s right for you. It’s a big mistake to give up your dreams. Postpone them OK, but don’t ever give them up.’ She gathers her hair in both slender hands and flings it behind her. Millie looks at her.
‘You sound very sure.’