Back to Vanilla

by Jennifer Maschek

  With no time left for pleasantries, Megan dashed off to fetch her three-year-old son, who, praise be, was ready for her, waiting in his navy duffel coat. She placed him into his hand-me-down buggy, once owned by his sister, who was now a strapping ten-year-old tugging at the shirt tails of adolescence.

  She unwrapped the cling film from a soggy cheese sandwich made by her husband, Rich, that morning, crusts carefully trimmed off and bread cut into right-angled triangles. She placed it in Sam’s left hand, the right one being occupied with the small blue Jess the Cat water bottle that seemed glued to his mouth, and without a word, the two steamed double time up the hill that led almost directly from Waterfield’s Primary School to the main street where the dental surgery waited.

  On arrival, mother and son popped into the small toilet cubicle with a private sink, and she made sure to scrub from his tiny teeth all traces of the cheese, bread and cereal bar he had eaten while she pushed. Playing the good boy, he barely protested, knowing this was a non-negotiable.

  And, for the third time that year, he sat in the adjustable swivel chair in a surgery filled with friendly-faced fluffy toys, stickers and even a few primary coloured posters on the ceiling for younger patients to gaze up at as they lay flat on their backs, and refused to open his mouth. Bribery, coercion, threats… nothing worked. Lips firmly pursed, he sat shaking his head for 15 long minutes, before, once again, with Megan feeling like the world’s most ineffectual mother, he was strapped into the buggy and off they went.

  The walk back down towards home was substantially less unpleasant in the way that downhill tends to be. They passed the school during the 25-minute return walk, but now Megan was neither red-faced nor panting nor stressed, and Sam was fast asleep. As if on cue, though, he woke up as they walked in through the front door, with just over an hour until Becky would arrive, fresh from the newly permitted freedom of her five-minute walk from school. Grace, at 15 the oldest of the three children, had play rehearsals and was unlikely to appear before 6pm.

  Resisting the appeal of a surreptitious hour spent in front of some mindless telly, Megan wandered into the cramped kitchen of their early Edwardian terraced house. Rich couldn’t have been gone for long – the kettle was still warm – and she grabbed the bowl of celery sticks and cucumber cubes he’d kindly pre-chopped from the fridge, and settled down with their son and a selection of Dr Seuss on the couch for half an hour before going online.

  It was her turn to make a move; if she was quick, there’d be just enough time. Using two of the letters already there, she keyed in the word “influence”: that was one plus one plus four plus one plus one plus one plus three plus one… 13 points!

  With three kids and a part-time job to shuffle, the handfuls of free time Megan managed to scoop out for herself these days had been increasingly spent scouring through profiles and suggested reads on Facebook, and on trying out various game apps on her phone. When the chance came to combine the two, which it occasionally did, she took it.

  Which was how Megan, through an opportunist link suggested to her on the all-pervasive social network, found herself wandering head first into what was, implausible as she had initially found it, gradually revealing itself as the racy world of online Scrabble.

  That was two-and-a-half months ago and by now she’d played more than 237 hours of the game, under the name WordGirl. She was well versed in the rules and becoming a fixture in the online scene, so was constantly in demand as a contestant. She played twosomes, foursomes and as part of a larger team, as well as dabbling a little, as her skill and confidence in her abilities as a sesquipedalian bloomed, in the world of challenges and clan Scrabble matches.

  She delighted in understanding the finer machinations of what was to her a whole new world, in getting to know the people, the politics, the gossip and the game, and as 9.30 approached each evening – traditionally, though not always, the start of whatever time she could call her own – she started to will the hours, minutes away.

  She went to work, made meals, washed dishes, listened to accounts of her family members’ days, sympathised, empathised, hypothesised, all increasingly on autopilot as her thoughts became lost in the combinations of letters, the funny, complicated lives of her online playmates, and, increasingly, her burgeoning friendship with Boyd_Cooper, with whom she was spending more and more of her virtual time.

  As WordGirl and Boyd_Cooper, they were already becoming quite the fearsome duo. He was by far the more skilled and experienced player, she knew, but she was good, getting better, and their practice sessions were beginning to help. They met in their private world every night at 9.45pm, and if the kids weren’t settled by then, she would feel herself getting a little jittery and borderline tetchy, although she tried hard to fight it. The window between him getting home from work at 4.30 Arkansas time and his wife’s arrival an hour or so later was short and she desperately needed his tuition in the game.

  Having taken her turn, Megan, checked her messages, including one from Boyd: “Hey Wordy. Same time, same place! Be there. ;)”

  She beamed and headed into the kitchen to prepare for the next wave of family chaos.

  ********************

  “Hey WG.” The message flashed up and simultaneously buzzed on Kik, one of the preferred instant-messaging systems of the anonymous online. “You busy?”

  It was 9.33pm and although Sam had long given up the fight and dropped off, and Grace was doubtless lying face down on her bed up in the loft extension, half-eaten packet of jelly beans to her left, phone in her right hand, her middle girl, Becky, was wide awake and struggling. This was totally out of character for a girl who, at ten, was all but self-sufficient, as she had been (or so it seemed) since she left the womb, but this evening she just couldn’t get to sleep.

  The annual swimming gala at school tomorrow – her last at primary – was troubling her. She’d been put in the freestyle relay, which meant, in her overly conscientious eyes at least, that she needed to be on top form, and was unable to sleep precisely because she felt it was so vitally important that she did.

  “Be there soon, B_C. Family life!” It was a joke between them that they’d never compromise and stoop to text-speak, the shortening of their names being the only exception.

  “Here’s your glass of water, Becks, but I think we’re reaching a point where it’s all this drinking that’s actually keeping you awake and not just your fretting,” she smiled, as she placed the drink on the bedside table next to her wide-awake child. Her light was switched off, a small fan purring softly beside her, for comforting white noise as much as to move the air. A stifling heat had settled over the seaside town as the school term drew to a close and the summer holidays were within touching distance.

  “Ah, whoso doth choose to procreate not once but three times must payeth the price, I guess. I’ll be here for another 90 minutes. My wife’s at a conference out of town and not due home until late.”

  Megan flopped down into the large burgundy sofa that dominated her lounge, and tapped away at the screen.

  “Oh funny, haha. You’ll be there some day and who’ll be laughing then? Hmmm.”

  She paused before pressing the enter key… did she know him well enough? What if their childlessness hadn’t been a conscious decision but a disappointment, one of life’s cruel jokes? Her finger slipped and it was sent none the less, taking the choice from her hands.

  “Ha yourself. I kind of think that’s not on the cards right now, if ever. Not the greatest fan of the rugrats anyway, all those sticky fingerprints over my work. And my wife’s a busy woman. Thank heavens one of us is bringing in the cash. When she’s home it’s mostly work stuff she’s doing, hogging up my computer ;). I know, I know… boo hoo, me.”

  “Yeah, Boyd, my heart bleeds. Trust me, there are times I’d happily trade lives with either of you. Just to get the peace to cut my fingernails is hard enough sometimes.”

  “Uh huh, uh huh… or to trim your nasal hair and moustache… I know… ;)”


  And she laughed out loud, a guttural guffaw, clutching the phone to her chest as if, although totally alone, to guard the subject of her mirth from outside eyes.

  “So you’ve heard all about us hairy European girls? Is that why you’re hanging around with me, to gather up my fluffy tufty scraps, to use them to make pillows to sell on Etsy? Is that it, hmm… is it?” She giggled as she typed the words, and stared at the screen, suppressing her sniggers, waiting for a response, willing it to arrive as the seconds turned to minutes: six incredibly long minutes.

  “Sorry… the dog demanded attention there, had to let the little fellow out to pee. Now where was I? Ah yes, your excess of hair. Has this always been an issue with you or did it only hit as you matured? Please, you can tell me, I’m a doctor.”

  She paused. Was he? “Are you?”

  “Of course not. You serious? I’m a notorious, in these parts at least, cat burglar, but instead of stealing jewellery, I prowl the internet searching for desolate souls to gather up. No, I’m a mechanic. Was. Now I own my own store, car parts, advice, that kind of thing.”

  And with that, several bits fell into place – his hours, the long weeks, the odd cash comment he’d made about being the secondary wage earner.

  “But back to you and your fur coat, WG… how come you never shared these hirsute difficulties with me before? And is it all over your body? I mean, surely there are bits you can’t see. Do you need someone to check them out for you?”

  Megan paused. She knew it was madness to get quite this excited by these seemingly casual exchanges, but she was. She could feel the blood-rush prick sharply below the surface of the skin around her face, shoulders and neck. In her worst-case scenario, she was wrong and this was simply some friendly American guy chatting with her the way he passed the time of day with the customers who came through his shop, and as a worst case, well, this was hardly untenable. Again, she took a deep breath and typed.

  “You can trust me when I say that the fur I do have and choose to keep, I’ll have you know, is sleek, glossy and incredibly well groomed. If, however, you find there are bits of me you’d like to inspect, please feel free to ask, as a refusal, though feasible, is never unkindly meant.”

  “Mum!” Clenching her teeth and pausing to avoid the growl that threatened to erupt in response to Becky’s plaintive call, which had ripped into her rare bubble of solo time, Megan rested the phone down on the couch, reminded herself that she had been lucky with all her kids and went to her daughter’s bedroom. Having settled her back down, she walked up the stairs to the third floor, where Grace lay like a princess in her pit and waved her away, as if she were a serf, with one hand while texting with the other, and then peeped in to where Sam lay still deeply asleep.

  The interruption did, however, offer a pause for thought, and Megan began to question her blatant flirting with a married man with whom she was connected only because they played Scrabble and who was most likely being no more than polite in his banter. At this, her desire to see any response from him again, ever, shrivelled and she sidetracked, heading for the kitchen and the solace of tea. At some point, she’d have the excruciating task of reading his response, but now wasn’t quite it.

  ********************

  Her daughter was not the only one who struggled to sleep that night. Resisting any temptation to check her messages, because the whole thing was just too bloody silly, Megan had made and drunk a mug of tea, switched her phone into airplane mode, and was lying in her small double bed thinking when the sound of a key in the front door announced Rich’s return. It was later than she’d thought.

  His job as a nurse in the nearby hospital currently had him working 10-hour shifts that got him home shortly after 1am. During these periods, he barely saw Megan, although he tried to stagger his sleep to be up making breakfast for the children while she got herself ready, and while Sam was doing three mornings at playgroup, the other two were spent with his dad.

  Rich, noticing the light was still on upstairs, went up to the bedroom and stood in the doorway, smiling as he noted two long red indentations running down Megan’s cheek, pressed in by her crumpled sheet, and her eyes blinked up at him like those of a bewildered mole. “Hey, sleepy, what you doing up at this time?”

  “Can’t sleep,” she said. “First Becky struggled – and I mean really did, unusual for her, poor baby – now me. Must be something in the air. Full moon, maybe. How was your day?”

  “Same old. No news on the promotion but, hey, I’m not convinced it’s worth the extra hassle for the pittance. You fancy tea?”

  “Actually, I think maybe I do. Peppermint maybe… there’s no caffeine in that, right? Nothing to keep me awake.”

  “Nothing. And you? How was your day, and what is it that’s stopping you sleeping? I thought there was nothing on Earth that could do that.” And he ducked to dodge the friendly blow that Megan might have thrown his way had the day been less advanced.

  “Day was fine. I… I dunno… just thinking, I guess. Life. The universe. People. Me. Maybe I just take it all more seriously than it needs. Tea and then sleep.”

  “Tea and then sleep, little bird. Your chicks need you wide-eyed and bushy-tailed tomorrow. I might not make it upstairs tonight… long day, plus I don’t want to disturb you if I can avoid it. But tea first; back in a mo.”

  She barely noticed him leaving, then returning shortly afterwards with her drink. He tucked her in with a goodnight kiss on the forehead, and went back down.

  Rich was shattered and the oppressive weight of a heavy shift pressed down on him, although his conscious thoughts were more or less in the moment, which was where experience had taught him it felt best to keep them. The temptation to relive, to over-analyse, the events of any given work day was always great, but not the path to any semblance of peace of mind.

  This was, as he knew well, easier said than done, though, and so he slumped down on the settee, skinned himself up a fat one and felt the sag of his shoulders and the slump of his mind and body into neutral as the THC let loose a sigh that ran down his entire body.

  3. Lyall

  Lyall stared through the window of his black cab as the streets of Edinburgh at pub chucking-out time on a Sunday evening whirled past. With roughly 20 minutes on his journey home to untangle the knot of feelings inside him, he chose the simple path and immersed himself in the filial warmth of the mellow evening he had just spent with his dad. Pushing down the uncomfortable thought that perhaps in sharing a drink with Alasdair, he had, in some way, given unofficial blessing to his dipsomania, he enjoyed a rare few moments in his own head, before paying the driver, adding a hefty tip, and walking towards his front door.

  The relatively modern four-bedroom detached house in which he and Lorna were bringing up their three girls was within easy walking distance of an outstanding primary school and three streets from Lorna’s mother, Jane. She had relocated from London shortly after Lorna’s first pregnancy, retiring early from her seemingly glamorous position as a marketing manager at a fairly high-profile advertising company based in Mayfair to stay close to her only daughter; this proximity was a mixed blessing.

  Although he wasn’t quite sure how, Lyall had grown to look on his abilities as a father as slightly inferior. Maybe, he thought, this was because Lorna was so fervently and relentlessly positive about her own maternal obligations, even in private for the most part, whereas he found the whole business relentlessly difficult and wearying.

  For him, Jane offered some relief from the feelings of his own ineptitude in the face of so daunting a responsibility by ensuring that even when she was around and helping out, he was always kept firmly in charge. “We need to check with Dad first,” was a catchphrase of hers. For this, he was grateful.

  The house was as silent as it ever could be, and the only light, a dim one, came from the glare he knew to be the 42-inch television screen on the lounge wall.

  Lorna sat on last two seats of the black leather corner sofa, her left a
rm leaning on the armrest, her long legs up and folded next to her. She was engrossed in some programme he didn’t recognise, but pressed pause and looked up with a smile as he walked into the room.

  “How was he?” she asked, patting the sofa next to her. As he dutifully slumped down, Lyall realised that the sense of bonhomie that had surrounded him during the taxi ride had waned and was slowly being replaced by a flatness coloured only by uneasiness at the idea that he might have been somehow complicit in his father’s slow but steady descent.

  “Aw hell,” he said, reluctant to share something he barely understood himself, but desperate to be assuaged of the guilt that had begun to seep into his thoughts. “He was good. He’s looking good and I don’t think he’d been drinking beforehand. Nice food. And it was good to talk about Ma and all, but… aw hell. I just wish I could help, you know...”

  “You didn’t cause it, you can’t control it, you can’t cure it, babe. All you can do is be there and look after yourself and us. It’ll be all right. You fancy some tea? I’m making, or… you’re, erm, smelling a little beery… you want another?”

  “Yeah, he’d got some in… for me,” he said. “I dunno… How was your evening? Girls get to sleep okay? No madness at bathtime?”

  “Mum came round – she’s off to stay at the flat for the week from tomorrow… birthday week of celebrations, you know how she is. Anyhow, naturally she was heading out for dinner, but she helped with the bedtime chaos. No idea how she manages to keep those clothes so impeccable – cream linen suit tonight – while getting the girls so clean, but hey, maybe it’s a trait I’ll get to inherit someday. They asked after you… they were great, but I know they missed you at story time. I said you’d sneak in and kiss them when you got home. They’ll get over it.”