by Sue Nicholls
‘But I do things that make it worse.’
‘For example?’
‘For example, spoiling my daughter’s birthday party, and banging around at work. It’s Fee’s fault.’
‘Any friends you could talk to?’
Paul thinks of his old mates, Pete, Phil, Johnny. Good drinking partners but not the kind you’d share feelings with. ‘We lost touch after Fee and I got married.’
‘Any reason for that?’ Max sweeps a flop of fringe from his eyes and grabs the clipboard again.
‘Not sure. Fee wasn’t keen on them. We used to see them, but it stopped.’ Paul is stunned to realise that he left his old life so completely behind.
The counsellor nods and waits in the silent room.
Paul glares at him. ‘What do you want me to say? Fee’s a scheming cow and I’m the gullible fool who’s been taken for a ride. I feel a complete IDIOT!’ The words echo in the room. ‘And I want my kid!’ He sounds like a small child whose ice cream has plopped into the gutter.
Max nods again, jots some private notes, and continues to wait.
Paul squirms between the wooden arms of the chair and lapses into silence.
With gentle questioning Max extracts the whole story: the bonfire party and the revelation of Fee’s departure, her announcement, presented coolly and calmly once Kitty was tucked up in bed. Then his motor bike ride and the morning-after exchange.
‘Did she give her reasons for leaving?’
‘Can’t remember.’ He is not ready to share the full conversation that morning.
Max nods again and although his face is passive, tense sinews in his neck hint at a clenched jaw. ‘So, what do you need from me?’
‘I dunno. A woman at work thought you could help me.’ He raises his eyes to meet Max’s. ‘Bollocks I expect.’
‘Well, not necessarily, but it is up to you. We can talk in more detail about your childhood, your marriage and so on and perhaps you will make sense of why this has happened. I can’t promise miracles but sometimes sharing can help put things into perspective. People discover things about themselves.’
‘You saying I’m to blame?’
‘It’s not for me to judge who is to blame if anyone. I’m simply stating that talking can untangle thoughts. Tidy minds are easier to manage, believe me.’ His face is a picture of empathy. ‘They flow in one direction instead of in circles and they point to the future. If ever you decide I’m not helping, then you are at liberty to stop coming. I won’t criticise you, Paul. This is your life, your pain, I’m just here to help explore your feelings.’
‘OK, I get it.’ He should apologise but instead gives a grunt.
‘In this room you can say what you wish, I’m quite robust. I know how you feel.’ There is compassion in Max’s eyes as he smiles.
Paul’s lips bow in response. He does not know what the bloody hell he is doing here, but now he has made the appointment; he will give it a go.
The two men talk about Paul’s childhood. His kindly but simple grandparents, who raised him, and the largely unexciting primary school days. Paul begins to squirm at the intensity of Max’s attention. ‘So, what are your parents like?’ He throws out at Max.
Max’s eyes shoot to the fireplace. ‘We’re here to talk about you, Paul.’
‘Yeah, I know, but it’s not easy to talk about this stuff. We could make it a bit more mutual.’
Max’s fingers whiten on his pen for a moment, and he swallows. ‘Sorry, Paul. That’s not the way it works.’
An hour later, Paul exits the building and looks left and right. A small group of students descend from a bus a hundred yards away, and opposite, a young couple with a huge brown dog on a lead, stride along the pavement, but there is nobody who would recognise him, and he slips down the steps.
***
7.00pm. Paul rubs his frozen hands together and looks carefully about. A wild night has descended and shadows shimmy and dive in the laurel bushes. He comes silently from his hiding place and glides like a wraith round the corner to his motor bike. The rumbling of his stomach brings fish and chips to mind.
The bike fires up beautifully. There is a chippy on the way home, run by a Chinese couple. Paul calls them Mr and Mrs Hun Po because that is the name of the restaurant. He has no idea what Hun Po means. He smiles at the thought that nobody it could Fat Pig or Shit Heap for all anybody knew.
The Hun Po has been his regular stop since Fee left. Paul has become fond of the charming couple - the wide, welcoming smile of Mr Hun Po, and the shy one of his wife, nodding at Paul from the fryer, although Paul has spied her, not shy at all, at the back of the shop, chattering and laughing in a shrill, East Asian dialect.
He parks the bike under a streetlamp and walks across the car park, breathing in the smell of chips and five spice that float deliciously through the dark evening. Bodies move behind steamy glass and it soon becomes apparent that they belong to a group of jostling lads in high spirits, possibly the liquid variety. Paul’s fuse begins to fizz.
In the tiled interior there is no welcoming smile from Mr Hun Po. He is writing in pencil on a small white order pad, his face grim. Lounging against the glass cabinet, a tall, shapeless youth in a flapping leather jacket, grins over at Mrs Hun Po. ‘Come on darlin’, I’m talking to yer. Bloody Chinky.’
Three other young men leer at the poor lady, who shakes her head in incomprehension.
The ringleader pokes out his acned chin and flicks back a greasy blond fringe. ‘What yer doin’ comin’ over ‘ere and takin’ our jobs when yer can’t even speak bloody English?’
Mr Hun Po interjects. ‘Excuse me sir. Please be polite. My wife speaks poor English. She does not understand but she works hard and she taking lessons.’
‘You wanna put ‘er on the game mate. She won’t need no English when she’s flat on ‘er back,’
The fuse burns out and Paul explodes. ‘Oy! Wanker!’
Four dangerous faces revolve in his direction.
In the corner of his eye, Mr Hun Po picks up the telephone.
Anger makes him brave. ‘Leave them alone. These are good people. Pick on someone your own fucking size.’
The youth at the counter turns towards Paul and his little gang part to let him through, falling in behind him and grinning. Paul stokes his anger by thinking of the bloody middle-class parents in Fee’s hall.
From behind the counter Mr Hun Po calls loudly, ‘Police on way.’
‘Still time for a small dust up,’ the yob snarls, flexing his fingers.
Paul is powerful with adrenalin. He pulls back an arm, clenching his fist, and steps forward before the youth has time to think, putting his weight behind a most satisfying punch. As his knuckles make contact with the yob’s disintegrating nose, Paul shifts onto his left leg and jerks his right knee into a yielding crutch, then canons his shoe down the length of the fellow’s shin and stomps viciously on his foot.
The youth screams and drops to the floor in a writhing ball and Paul looks at his mates, beckoning with both sets of fingers. ‘Anyone else?’
With looks of horror on their pasty faces they abandon their leader and make a run for it. They dodge past a pair of police officers leaping from a police car, who give chase. The siren of a second car wails balefully, in slow pursuit. Avoiding Paul, the injured youth staggers to his feet clutching his genitals and limps out of the door.
Mr Hun Po puts both arms round his wife, and she cowers against his chest. He smiles warily at Paul.
Paul brushes his palms together in a mock dusting action. ‘Well, that seems to have sorted that out.’
The proprietor beams in relief. ‘Thank you. Thank you.’
Paul feels like The Terminator. ‘Large cod and chips, please.’
‘On the house,’ grins Mr Hun Po.
The police car returns with three heads in the back, and the two officers from the first car follow on foot. Before long, one comes inside. The blue serge of his uniform is tight across his chest, and a ruddy n
eck bulges over his crisp white shirt. It supports a weathered face that looks mildly at Paul. ‘Good evening Sir.’
‘Evening.’ Paul unwraps his parcel of steaming food and pops a chip into his mouth.
‘May I take a few particulars from you, sir?’
‘Sure.’ Paul plonks himself on a low window ledge, while the officer digs a pad and pen from the recesses of his uniform. After recording contact details, the policeman makes notes as Paul describes events, in between mouthfuls of supper. When he has finished, he wipes his fingers on the paper and screws it into a ball.
‘Thank you, Mr Thomas.’ The PC sounds satisfied. ‘Paul Thomas, I am arresting you now for causing actual bodily harm. You are not obliged….’ Paul’s mouth drops open, and behind the counter Mr Hun Po shouts, ‘No, no, no.’
Before he can take in what is happening Paul is pressed into the back of the second police car, where he comes face to blotchy face with the greasy haired recipient of his former attentions. A woman officer in the driving seat, speaks into her radio.
‘Delta Charlie 467 and 493, on way with five bodies, one injured, possibly a broken foot. Medic to attend.’
Paul groans.
Chapter 17
After a night in a cell Paul longs for a cup of tea, a shower and a kip. He wanders to the kitchen and fills the kettle, putting it on the crumb-scattered counter and flipping its switch.
A potential charge of ABH is so unreasonable. Without his heroic actions that poor couple’s place might have been trashed. If he were not so tired, he would be more incensed.
There are no clean cups, so he fishes one from brown water in the sink and rinses it under the hot tap. As he pours boiling water onto a tea bag his mouth extends into a yawn. Tea made; he starts up the stairs for the bathroom.
A long ringing on the doorbell stops him in his tracks. Bugger. If it is someone selling dusters he is not in the mood. Still clasping the mug, he stomps back, and flings open the door.
‘Paul.’ Fee looks agitated.
‘Fee.’
‘Can I come in?’ She goes to step over the threshold and Paul moves to block her way. ‘This isn’t a good time.’
Fee folds her arms then sniffs and crumples her nose. ‘The house smells awful.’ She leans towards him and sniffs again. ‘And so do you.’
He looks at his wife. Her shining blond hair swings with every move of her head. Her crisp white shirt is tucked into light blue, belted jeans that skim her hips perfectly. Over the shirt she wears a tweed jacket, and round her neck, a skillfully tied, gold, paisley scarf. In comparison he is very aware of his crumpled clothes, sweating armpits and stubbled chin. ‘Well, I’ve had a hard night.’
‘I’ve had a hard night too, worrying how we’re to get a decent price for this house if you can’t manage to look after it.’ Her head cranes past him and her eyes reach the kitchen. ‘What’s that?’ Paul, I can’t believe you’ve brought car parts into the kitchen.’
Fury rises Paul’s breast. ‘Just fuck off Fee. You left. It’s my business how I choose to live.’
She recoils. ‘If you don’t take care of it, we’ll all suffer. The value will be affected. The lower the price, the less your share will be and the less you’ll have, to spend on your next house.’ Fee takes a breath. ‘And what will Kitty think when she sees the house in this state? I suggest you give that some thought.’
She spins round and stalks away down the path.
Paul slams the door, seething, and runs upstairs for his shower. As the hot jets of water pour over his face and body, he curses Fee, scrubbing his chest as if it is stained with her blood.
Chapter 18
Max’s room is peaceful and the usual bright fire crackles in the hearth. Between them on the table stand the two crystal tumblers with a water jug placed precisely halfway between.
Max is languid in his chair. His left leg is loosely crossed over his right and a pen and pad rest on it. ‘How was your week?’
Paul’s shoulders are hunched on the straight-backed wooden chair, and one heel drums on the floor. ‘How do you expect? I’ve been arrested, my wife’s selling the house from under me, and my kid’s growing up hardly knowing me.’
How did you get arrested?
Paul recounts the events in the fish and chip shop.
‘Were you angry?’
‘Course I was. Anyone would be.’
‘True. Do you think anyone would have got into a fight?’
Paul is silent and Max seems to take this as no.
‘Indeed. And you say the proprietor of the restaurant had a telephone.’
Paul nods his head. ‘Yeah.’
‘Might a different course of action have been possible?’ Max’s expression is unfathomable.
‘Well I suppose I could have dialled 999. But they were being complete arse-holes.’ He looks at Max, who remains inscrutable. ‘OK, yes, I should have walked away and called the police. I’m not sure how I could have told myself that at the time though.’
Max smiles. ‘That’s why you’re here Paul. Once you’ve acknowledged that change is possible, we can start to work on method.’
Max wants Paul to keep a diary. Not a journal of everything that happens, but the times when he loses his temper, the cause and the effect.
‘Is that it?’
‘To start with. If you do it for a few weeks, we’ll get a picture of your anger and we can look at ways to manage it.’ Max throws his pen onto the clipboard.
‘Let’s take a break from you and your feelings this week. Tell me about Fee. What’s she like?’
‘More intelligent than me, too beautiful for me, and bloody Middle Class!’ The words explode into the peaceful room and hover in the warm air.
Max pauses, then as levelly as always asks, ‘What attracted you to her?’
‘Her tits.’ Despite his negative emotions he smirks as he thinks back to his first sight of the lovely girl who walked past his office each morning. It was winter, and she was smartly muffled in a coat, fur hat, scarf and boots, only her pale, elegant face peeped out.
As spring and summer woke the drowsing neighbourhood gardens, Fee’s layers of clothing were shed until she was revealed in all her glowing beauty. Long slender legs emerged from demure skirts, complemented by immaculately cut jackets. She had straw coloured hair, a palely freckled, aquiline face and those breasts, marching before her like majorettes leading a band.
Through the tall bay window of Max’s room, Paul’s eyes land without seeing on budding branches that stab a luminous sky. He pulls his focus back to Max in time to catch a gleam in his eyes that could be recognition.
‘How does she manage bringing up your daughter, um, Kitty isn’t it?’
Max’s memory is impressive. Every tiny detail is filed in that intelligent head. Any inconsistency in Paul’s responses is picked up.
‘Oh, she’s got that sorted out!’ Paul describes the arrangements between the three women, and as he speaks, the volume of his voice rises. ‘They don’t need bloody men to help them. We’re surplus to requirements, redundant!’
Max is quiet for a moment while Paul’s latest outburst joins his last.
‘You could look at this as an opportunity.’ He leans forward and takes a drink of water, replacing his glass in the centre of its coaster. ‘There are plenty of men who would love to be in your shoes, to have a chance to do as they please. Come on now, think back; there must have been times during your marriage when you longed to escape, wished you’d never had kids, heard railway announcements and were tempted hop on a train to the coast without a care?’
Paul must admit that life was far from perfect after the baby. Once upon a time Fee was available for all his needs. Her well paid career meant that he did not need to put much effort into his own. Fee often found him listening to music and drinking lager when she got home from work.
Then Kitty arrived and she wanted him to help with everything. She was often too tired for sex, and the house was covered in baby clobb
er.
‘Maybe,’ is all he says.
Max pokes his lips out thoughtfully. ‘You could get fit, learn to fly, buy a bachelor pad, date women, who knows? What do you fancy?’
For the first time Paul contemplates the advantages of a single life, with a fleet of classic cars and bikes. Showing them at motoring events, with admiring visitors examining their upholstery, paintwork and gleaming engines. Girls in tight jeans smiling at him as he cruises through towns, like James Bond, a blond in a flapping scarf at his side.
Max jolts him back to reality. ‘Why do you think she’s more intelligent than you?’
Paul’s head flies up and his knee resumes its jumping and bumping. ‘Well she programs computers for a living.’ He ticks off his fingers as he speaks. ‘She adds up figures before I’ve focussed on the page, and she can put up self-assembly furniture without reading the instructions.’ He sounds more flippant than he feels.
‘And what are you good at?’
Paul is still vibrating. ‘Well, I suppose I can fix things, you know, the bike, the central heating, a broken chair. ‘
‘Anything else?’
The knee becomes still. ‘Geography. I was good at it at school: capitals of countries, rivers, climate, economy, that sort of thing. And I’ve got a good sense of direction.’
‘That’s excellent. Have you travelled much?’
‘Not really. I would have liked to, but marriage and family got in the way. Fee never wanted to go anywhere after Kitty, not even the pub.’
Paul ponders life before Fee: B.F. Bloody fool more like. He certainly spent more time in the pub with his mates in those days. They are probably trapped in tedious marriages now, having to help with the nappies and the washing up, poor sods.
Max interjects again. ‘And middle class is bad is it?’
Paul glares. ‘I don’t get how she ticks. She makes stupid things important.’
‘What sort of things?’
‘Who Kitty is mixing with. Do they speak nicely? What school will she go to? Whether the table’s laid properly - all sorts of crap.’