by Sue Nicholls
After feeding the machine, they set out along a broad footpath that leads them between budding beeches and hazels. Beneath their branches, the green tips of bluebells promise gorgeous treats to come. The children are wrapped against the gusting wind that seems to be a constant theme of this year. They kick up soggy leaves, and when Mick suggests hide and seek, rush away with glee. He takes a deep and relieved breath. ‘Here I come,’ he sings, and pretends not to hear their sniggers and rustles.
They walk further into the forest and Mick notices his shoelace dangling in the dirt, so he stops to tie it. The children run ahead, Lucas, still unsteady on small legs. Olivia, in front, spots a fallen tree and squeals. On his knees, Mick shouts at her to wait but the two are already scrambling over the thick branches that lie like huge arms across the earth. Mick yanks the laces tight and rushes towards them. As he watches, Lucas’ clothing catches on a projection, and the little boy tips forwards with a cry and drops between projecting spikes, his neck yanked by his winding scarf as he falls.
Mick throws himself onto his stomach. Among a tangle of branches his son is hooked by his scarf but the undergrowth has cushioned his fall. Mick’s heart slows a tad, and he hauls out his shaking boy. The child whimpers as Mick lies him on the ground to examine the damage. Thank God the neck seems unharmed, but the leg. He swallows, and his heart races as he pats his pockets for the tissues that he knows he has not brought. Only the heavy load of coins clink at his touch.
Lucas sits up and looks at his thigh, and at the sight of a jagged tear in his trousers, and a deep, dripping slice in his tender flesh, he screams.
Mick holds him close. ‘Alright Sunshine. Nothing to worry about. We’ll get this cleaned up and you’ll be fine.’
They hurry to the lavatories behind the visitor centre and dab the sobbing boy’s wound with damp napkins borrowed from the café.
‘It’s OK Lukey. Don’t cry,’ Olivia croons like a little mother.
On the way home Mick leaves the children locked in the car and watches them nervously through the window of the pharmacy, while he queues for sticking plasters and bandage. Lucas’ pale face stares back at him from his car seat, and out of sight, Mick knows that he holds a wad of moist serviettes over his injury, blood still seeping into them.
With medical purchases in a bag, Mick winks across the pavement at his son and nips to a nearby bakery.
Back home in the flat Mick and Olivia apply steri-tabs, gauze, sticking plaster, and a bandage for good measure, to Lucas’s leg. The boy tests it out, hobbling round the room and snivelling.
‘There, that’s better,’ Mick insists, and fetches plates and knives, hoping sugar will distract Lucas from his troubles.
‘Can I go home now?’ Lucas looks tired.
‘Of course, Sunshine. It wasn’t a great day, was it? I’ll do better next time.’ He puts the cakes back in their box.
***
‘Hi Ma.’
‘Hello Son. How was your day?’ Gloria’s voice is comforting.
‘Oh, you know, could have gone better.’
He pictures his mother’s firm, stout figure, perched upright in a wing chair, her head cocked to one side, waiting to hear his news.
‘Did the kiddies have fun?’
Mick goes over the day in his mind. He did not have fun, worrying if the children were enjoying themselves. The accident scuppered everything in the end.
‘I hope so Ma. Lucas got upset. It’s such a change for them.’
‘They’ll come round Son. Don’t worry. You’ve all got settlin’ in to do.’
Mick rubs his eyes with his spare hand, squeezing his eyeballs until he sees red blobs. Yeah, I guess so. I didn’t know it would be so hard. They’re my kids, we know each other, but today I felt like a stranger.’
‘You’ll be fine. Give it time. What did you do?’
Mick recounts their trip, glossing over Lucas’s fall. ‘I’m going to have to buy a TV and get some things to keep them entertained here.’
‘Good idea. You don’t have to go out every time you see them.’
‘I should have thought of that earlier though Mum. I should be better than this.’
‘Don’t be hard on yourself Mick. Men aren’t designed to look after children. That’s women’s work.’ Gloria’s indignation zings from the handset.
‘No Ma, it’s my fault. I didn’t consider their needs. You’re right, I’m not used to it, but that doesn’t mean I can’t do it. Millie’s not coming back (damn her) so we’ve all got to be prepared for a different way of life. All of us Ma.’
Chapter 24
Paul rubs his thumb against the spine of a small book in his pocket. He bought it as a feeble gesture towards recording his anger, and he is angry now but he can’t explain why. Does Max want him to write in it this minute, in this condition? Well he can forget that.
The Laurel bush has welcomed him like an old friend. The dog turd at its base is flattened into the earth as if some other person has passed through this leafy hiding place. Kids perhaps? The weather is warming up at last. In gardens opposite, tubs of daffodils and other unknown muted pink and blue blooms bring dancing colour to the neighbourhood.
A powerful looking, black-skinned man alights from a car, and as Paul watches with interest, collects two small brown children from Millie at the open door. He walks back along the pathway with the kids clinging to his wrists. This must be Mick. Paul wonders how he is coping. He looks cheerful and confident with those kids.
He strains for a glimpse of Kitty or Fee inside but after Millie has stood on the step to wave them off, she closes the front door.
Paul sucks his cigarette and drops it onto the earth, then glares at the façade of the house and looks at his watch. Time for his weekly appointment with Max. He has not much to offer the man this week but at least he’s bought the book.
He plunges deeper into the bushes and squeezes along the metal railings to a hidden gate that opens into the park. The tufted grass is fragrant underfoot, and after a brief march past the playground, he exits through another gate into a side road. As he mounts his bike, he nods at a woman putting out her recycling and she nods back with a smile.
‘Bit nicer today.’
‘Yes. At least it’s not raining.’ Paul smiles at her without humour and jumps on the pedal. With a twist of his wrist he takes off in the direction of Melmsbury.
***
‘How’s the flat?’ They have been together about ten minutes and Max is beginning to probe.
‘It’s a flat. Over an estate agent’s. Not much to write home about but it’s home – as I now understand it.’
Max ignores Paul’s sarcasm. ‘Good. That’s excellent.’
Paul seethes. ‘If you say so.’
‘Has Kitty seen it?’
‘Yeah, she came on Thursday after school.’
‘And what did you do?’
‘Pizza, telly, there isn’t a lot of time on a school night.’
‘Did you listen to her read, anything like that?’
‘Never even thought of it.’ Paul remembers the thin blue bag, and lunch box that Kitty had carried out of school. He had told her to leave them in the car. He thinks now that it might have been nice to listen to the child read, he has never done that. He wonders how Kitty does at school. It is a new thought.
‘We did have a chat though, about life in Crispin Road.’
‘Crispin Road?’
‘Where they all live.’
‘Oh, right, and how are things there?’ Max picks up his pen.
‘Well, chaotic from what Kitty says. It’s crowded, and they’re getting on each other’s nerves. There have been a few rows between the adults and among the children.’
Max makes a note and Paul wonders why.
‘Are you worried?’ Max asks.
‘About what?’
‘Well, the impact on Kitty.’
‘Not really. Well, I get mad about it. She shouldn’t have to listen to adults arguing.’
>
‘Did she never hear you and Fee disagree?’
‘No. Fee didn’t argue. She had a look though, you know?’ Paul adopts an expression of disdain. ’She could make you feel an inch tall. I bet it’s the others that are bitching. Fee would just walk away.
‘Millie’s been looking at properties for her restaurant. Now that her house is sold, she can afford to take a punt.’ He catches interest in Max’s face. ‘You interested in food?’
‘Yes.’
Paul waits for more, but Max does not oblige, so he goes on, ‘I learned something else. My, soon-to-be-ex-wife, has inherited a beach hut near Whitstable.’
‘Very nice. It’s a lovely town.’
‘I wouldn’t know, mate.’
Paul cannot believe it. A bloody beach hut, on top of all Fee’s other advantages.
‘Have you been recording your anger?’
He was hoping to avoid this moment and frowns, poking out his lips. ‘It’s hard - writing about your feelings,’ then he brightens. ‘I’ve got the book though. It’s a start.’
Max smiles. ‘You don’t need to write while you’re angry. Just be aware and record afterwards when you’re calmer.’
Paul curls his hand into a fist and thumps it gently on the arm of the carver. ‘Yeah but afterwards I don’t want to think about it.’
Max leans forwards in his chair. ‘Look. Just rule three columns. Date and Time, Level of Anger on a scale of one to ten, and cause. You don’t have to pull it apart and analyse it, that can be done when we’ve got the data.’
Paul rubs his cheeks with the palms of his hands. When he looks up, Max is regarding him with a sympathetic expression. ‘When did you last have a holiday, Paul?’
‘A few years.’ Paul contemplates the idea of a break. He does not fancy a fortnight on his own, or even a week, but maybe a weekend. A change of scenery could be pleasant. Whitstable for example. ‘I might consider it.’ He smiles.
Chapter 25
‘Maurice. Maurice.’
Maurice grunts, groping for a route into reality, knowing who he will see when he unsticks his eyes. In the glaring daylight he squints with an effort at the despairing face of his mum.
‘Hello. What’s the matter?’
‘The children. You’ve fallen asleep while the children are here.’
Maurice struggles upright and blinks. ‘Are they OK?’
‘Yes, they are. No thanks to you, lad. But your bathroom’s a mess. They had a lovely time shredding the toilet roll and stuffing it in the pan.’
The smells and sounds of his surroundings begin to filter into his consciousness. The television, on which he had been watching sport, has been switched off. Sam and Josh are chattering at the end of the room, dipping fingers of toast into soft boiled eggs. The smell of grilled bread mixes with furniture polish, and the room has a newly cleaned and plumped air. His mother, he notices, has her palm resting on the handle of his battered vacuum cleaner.
‘I didn’t know you were here. Why didn’t you wake me?’
‘I wanted to see how long you could sleep when you should be looking after your own children. Frankly, Maurice, I’m disappointed.’
Familiar self-hatred washes over Maurice. Throughout his life his parents have pointed out his shortcomings rather than celebrating his small successes. He does not need anyone to tell him that he is an inadequate father, or that he was a useless husband. He is also fully aware of his average performance at work and his social ineptitude.
The children are kneeling on rustic wooden chairs at his Mexican style table. The furniture, bought for his marital home, overfills the tiny dining space.
Maurice stands. ‘Sorry kids. Daddy dropped off.’
‘That’s OK Dad,’ Sam chuckles. ‘We had fun without you. The toilet filled up with water, then we ran the bath. We were going to swim in it, but Grandma arrived and made us let the water out.’
Christ.
In the act of plugging in the Hoover, his mum raises her eyes to his, wearing a look of martyrdom. ‘Bring them to us when you have them next. Your Dad will enjoy the company. He’s fine by the way. Thanks for asking.’
Maurice is silent. Should he have asked after his father, whose legs are inflamed and senseless through diabetes? He sighs. ‘That’s good Mum. I’ll call in and see him tomorrow after work.’
His mother nods.
‘And thank you for the offer of help, and for doing this.’ He sweeps his arm round the tidy room.
She puts her foot on the button, and the wailing of the machine prevents further conversation.
Chapter 26
Millie climbs into the driver's seat of her VW and is soon zipping along the short dual carriageway to Chelterton.
The car squeezes its way up the sloping High Street through morning traffic. Ahead, the church thrusts its long spire into the sky. The young agent stands on the pavement with his ear welded to a mobile phone. As Millie climbs from the car, she cannot help noticing that he’s pretty damn gorgeous.
‘Gotta go.’ The agent pockets his phone and approaches Millie with his hand extended. ‘Mrs Sabatini?’ She nods.
‘Darren Rimmer.’
They shake hands and Millie does not correct his preceding of her maiden name by a married title.
She has already been to look at the outside of the premises, but to remind herself of just how perfect the position is, she takes another sweeping look up and down the street. No yellow lines, that is important. She reviews the frontage of the darkened premises. It is wide, with two bay windows made up of small, white-washed squares flanking glass doors. Above the panes a sign board declaims that this was once Chez Ralph.
Darren pulls a handful of keys from his pocket and starts trying them in the lock. They clatter against the glass as he fumbles. 'Sorry about this, I'm not sure which...' A key turns. 'Ah, there.' He holds back the door, and Millie steps over the threshold. She stands in the gloom and the agent switches on the light. The room is washed in gold. A few feet in front of her, a black and chrome bar gleams in the glare. There is space either side for sixty, maybe eighty covers.
‘Where’s the kitchen?’
‘Through here.’ Darren starts towards a door to the left of the bar and they pass into a spacious but empty shell. The floor is tiled but the walls bear only jagged evidence that there were once waist-high fixtures and fittings.
‘What happened to the equipment?’
‘Let’s just say they sold it.’ Darren looks at her meaningfully.
Went bust he means. Is she mad to consider this place? It is a good position. There is plenty of parking nearby, and a few bars and pubs. ‘Storage?’
‘Upstairs.’
They climb the bare steps to the first floor. Another big, empty area. Storage at first then, maybe one day, more seating. Millie’s pulse begins to speed.
***
She reverses into the drive next to Twitch’s people-carrier. At four twenty, Fee will still be at work.
In the kitchen, five small heads are stooped over schoolbooks at the table. Twitch is tipping wholemeal pasta into a pan of boiling water. Lovely home. Lovely life.
‘I’ve found it!’
‘Found it?’ Twitch sounds distant.
‘Yes, my restaurant!’ She waves the details, like a pennant.
The children drop pens and pencils and thrust back their chairs. The wooden legs grind on the floor. Twitch lowers the heat under the saucepan, and everyone crowds round Millie at the breakfast bar.
‘It’s perfect.’
‘It’s lovely!’
‘Can we go and see it?’
‘Millie meets Twitch’s eyes over their young heads. I think it’s the one but it’s going to cost a fortune.’
‘We’ll find a way. It’s your dream.’
Millie hugs Twitch. ‘I’m so lucky to have you.’
Chapter 27
‘Cheers Mate.’ Paul takes possession of a pint of bitter and gulps down the top two inches before putting it down.
The pub is treacle-brown and sticky. It serves real ale and boasts an ‘authentic’ atmosphere. At one end of the bar a crowd from a local office is noisy, with eruptions of laughter and fluttering eyelashes.
‘Cheers,’ returns Mick. ‘Good idea this - getting together.’
They look at each other with interest.
Fee had not been at all keen to give Paul their details, but when Millie and Twitch could think of no reason to refuse, she had handed over a slip of paper with their phone numbers.
Paul glances at his watch, wondering if Maurice will show up. When Paul rang, the man had, in a pathetic tone, expressed reluctance, then scepticism. Mick, on the other hand, had accepted straight away.
‘Yeah,’ Paul grins, ‘I suddenly realised that I haven’t been down the pub since, you know, since Fee went. That’s months.’
Maurice appears from the direction of the bar, carrying a glass of Coke.
Paul’s eyes rest on the drink. ‘You on the wagon?’
Maurice sits, nods a greeting to Mick and shakes his head. ‘No, just driving, and I’ve got an early start tomorrow: work.’ He raises his drink and they all swig.
‘What’s the work?’ queries Mick.
‘I’m designing an extension up the road.’
‘You could have a few pints and leave the car here,’ says Paul. ‘Pick it up tomorrow.’
‘I think not.’ Maurice’s face is disapproving. ‘I can’t afford to throw money away on taxis, not with a mortgage to pay on my own, and having the children for weekends. It costs a fortune doesn’t it?’
Gloomy nods.
‘Well the girls seem OK, don’t they?’ Paul says.
‘You’re not kidding,’ Mick exclaims in his deep, rich voice, ‘They’ve really got things sewn up.’
‘Stitched up, more like.’ Paul glares.
Maurice is still morose. ‘I couldn’t believe it when Twitch said she was leaving. I still don’t understand where she got the idea from.’
‘They encouraged each other and made prats out of us.’ Paul suppresses his rage and makes a mental note to record it later. He raises his glass and forces a smile. ‘To prats!’