Thanks For Nothing, Nick Maxwell

by Debbie Carbin

  ‘The thing is, Rach,’ she says, not meeting my eye, ‘I’ve never lived on my own.’

  This is true. She went straight from living with her parents to living with Glenn. I don’t see what relevance that little factoid has here, though.

  ‘You won’t be on your own. Jake will be there.’

  ‘Oh, yeah, of course, I forgot about him. If there’s a burglar, or a gas leak, I’ll just send him out, shall I?’

  ‘Well, no, obviously not, but what . . .?’

  She’s fidgeting now, trying to smile and look . . . what is that expression? Pleading? I’m sure I’m not going to like what is coming. ‘What I mean is . . . I really don’t want to be in the house on my own.’

  ‘Oh.’

  If you could see crushing disappointment, it would look like my face. I have got little cloud pictures clustered round my head and they all show me stretched out asleep on my beautiful, big bed. Now, they all break apart and dissipate into mist, then vanish all together. Sarah’s pleading face comes back into view, and behind it the microscope of my eyes zooms in on the tiny two-seater sofa – which apparently has a broken spring somewhere in its depths that corresponds exactly with the position of my arse when I lie on it – and behind that is the holocaust that used to be my living room.

  I love my little flat but it’s far too small for this many people. I have accepted the fact that in a couple of years, when Plum needs his own room, I am going to have to think about moving. But right now, it’s the perfect size, as long as it’s just the two of us. Sleeping. ‘But I really don’t think it’s a good idea for you both to stay here any longer – just because of the lack of space. As you said, it’s far too small for more than one person – and their baby.’

  ‘No, I agree.’ Bells ring, the sun comes out and the birds start singing again. ‘Actually, what I was thinking was maybe you could come and stay with me for a few days, in the spare room? There’s a single bed and a small wardrobe, so you’d be very comfortable. And I’d really appreciate it. Please, Rach?’

  When we were seventeen, Chrissie told me she was a lesbian. I stared at her in horror, thinking of all the things we’d been through together; everything I’d told her, everything she’d told me, the irreparable damage this was going to do to our friendship and how everything would have to change now. I was absolutely devastated.

  Then she said, ‘And I’ve lost your turquoise earrings. But that thing about me being a lesbian isn’t true.’

  What Sarah is suggesting is so much better than what I had imagined that I accept her proposal instantly. All right, I know, no peace or solitude. But right now, I’ve set my sights on a proper bed – a single will do – with a proper mattress and pillows and some sheets and blankets. The cloud pictures of me in a real bed pop back around my head like fireworks.

  Getting into the car later – would you believe it’s nearly half past eleven by the time we’re finally leaving? – is an ordeal. If we go back an hour and a half, we can see that all Jake’s toys are packed away into the carrier bag they came in and stuffed into the boot of Sarah’s car. The clothes too. My packed bag has been on the back seat of my car since twelve minutes past eight. But you’ll notice immediately what is missing from this quiet, still image of two parked cars in the cold winter sunshine – people. There is no sign of the three of us.

  Back in the flat, Jake wants scuba-diving Action Man back out of the bag in the boot so he can hold him during the journey. It’s a ten-minute journey, by the way.

  ‘Oh, you can manage without him,’ I’m saying, at exactly the same moment Sarah says, ‘Oh, all right then, Jakey.’ I snap my head round to glare at her, but she’s already heading back to the car to unpack all the toys.

  Scuba-diving Action Man, by the way, is an evasive bastard. He’s not where he’s meant to be, and is eventually tracked down at the bottom of the box of Lego. Good job he had oxygen tanks on.

  Forty-five minutes after everything was packed into the car, it gets packed in again. At this point, I realize that I’ll have to take Cosmo with me. I get his carry case down from on top of the kitchen cupboard. It’s a huge grey plastic box with slatted holes everywhere to let light in and a swing door made of thin steel bars at the front. Sarah is eyeing it suspiciously.

  ‘What’s that for?’ she says.

  ‘It’s my make-up case,’ I say, unsnapping the barred door on the front. ‘I need to look my best – you never know who you might meet.’

  She frowns, either not liking the sarcasm or not understanding it. ‘It looks like a pet carrier.’

  ‘Yes, Sarah, that’s exactly what it is.’

  ‘For what?’

  I bite my tongue. What I want to say is, ‘Two lions, two giraffes, two peacocks,’ but I leave it. Sarah knows that I have a cat, only one cat, and therefore is not asking who the pet carrier is for but more why I think I need to use it.

  ‘He’s got to come, Sarah. There’s no one else to feed him.’

  ‘I can’t have a cat in the house, Rachel. What if it picks at the carpet or the furniture and does loads of damage? I’ve got enough on my plate to worry about without that adding to it. Plus, there are the germs. I remember that thing about toxoplasmosis in the pooh. It’s a really serious bug – it can cause brain damage or even death in children.’

  ‘Sarah, for heaven’s sake, you and Jake have been here for over a week and it didn’t bother you. Why is it likely to be any different at your house?’

  She pouts. ‘Well, what if it does some damage?’

  I’ve seen Sarah’s house. I don’t think there’s much damage that Cos could do there that Jake and time haven’t already done. The milk, food and juice stains that now appear on my living-room carpet (I don’t mind, I don’t mind) feature much more heavily on hers. Plus, I’m doing her a favour, moving in with her for a few days. If she wants me, she has to put up with my cat too.

  But when people’s husbands have affairs, you don’t tell them how unreasonable and selfish they’re being. She could park three caravans full of bag people on her front lawn and dance naked round the garden in a drug-induced high while playing loud slash-metal music until two o’clock in the morning, and the neighbours would all tolerate it behind their curtains and say to their horrified visitors, ‘Her husband had an affair.’ To which the visitors would all nod their understanding, ‘Oh, I see.’

  Anyway, I am trying to do Sarah an enormous favour by giving up my home and moving across to the other side of town, to sleep in a strange bed, even though I’m heavily pregnant, and she is being difficult, unreasonable and selfish.

  ‘What if he stays in the garage?’

  She tuts, sighs, makes a big show of thinking about it for ages, then says, ‘I suppose so.’

  I chase Cos into his box, feeling very guilty about what I have just agreed for him. Still, it’s only a few days.

  ‘But if it makes a mess, you clear it up.’

  I’m not even going to remind her that the toxoplasmosis bacteria are more harmful to unborn babies.

  When we arrive, we are both delighted and relieved to find that the house is immaculate and there are vases of fresh flowers everywhere. Glenn has obviously gone to a lot of trouble to welcome her back into her home, even though he’s not doing it in person. It’s a nice touch and from Sarah’s face, I think he scored a few Brownie points, even though she mutters, ‘Stick some flowers in a vase and everything’s all right again . . .?’

  Cosmo sprints off across the garden, belly low to the ground, tail flat. I wonder if I’ll ever see him again.

  I carry my bag up to the spare room, where there are more fresh flowers and clean sheets. The January sun is slanting across the bed, putting it into a spotlight, and it seems to get bigger, filling the entire room until it’s the only thing I can see in there. It looks so wide and smooth, the quilt pulled neatly flat at the edges, as inviting as a field of freshly fallen snow.

  I sit on the end and bounce a couple of times, pushing my shoes off wit
h my toes and rubbing my feet over each other. I yawn mightily, stretching upwards, then flop backwards with my arms above my head. Yes, it’s a very comfortable bed, but compared to my two-seater sofa, Sarah’s kitchen table looks pillowy. Now that I’ve tried it out, I should go back downstairs and see if Sarah’s all right, but I can’t breathe properly lying on my back any more, so I shuffle up the bed until my head’s on the pillow, roll on to my side and close my eyes. Relaxed exhaustion descends on me and all my limbs grow heavy. I picture them made of warm lead, sinking deeper and deeper into the softness of a marshmallow mattress.

  A sudden jolt brings me fully awake, eyes wide with surprise. Plum seems to be having a tantrum in there, lashing out with his hands and feet, blissfully unaware of how it feels from this end. I sit up and put my hands on my belly, feeling Plum move past. ‘You all right in there, Plum?’ I say out loud, and the thrashing stills for just a moment. ‘Can you hear me, little baby?’ I say in wonder. ‘Are you listening to your mum’s voice?’

  ‘Don’t get used to that,’ Sarah says going past on the landing, ‘once he comes out, he’ll never listen to you again.’

  Looking at my watch, I’m amazed to find that I’ve been up here for about two and a half hours. I go out on to the landing and see Sarah’s bedroom door close, so I head downstairs to see what my godson is up to.

  Jake is in the living room, slumped on the sofa, eyes glazed as he watches a strange programme about a boy who looks like a bath sponge. He does not look very happy to be home, which surprises me. I thought he would be much more comfortable in familiar surroundings, with all his toys and books to hand. But he’s slumped on the sofa, watching television, eyes glazed. Under one arm he’s clutching a brown furry thing that could be a teddy bear. I notice that he’s sucking his thumb, which is something I haven’t seen him do since he started school over two years ago. There’s a funny smell in the room, too – a rather unpleasant, acrid smell that wafts over to me in bursts. I can’t identify it so I presume it must be something outside.

  ‘Hey, Jakey, wotcher watching?’ I say, bouncing into the room, trying to be his godmother. He’s having none of it though. ‘Is it good?’ I try again, but he still doesn’t reply. He doesn’t even look at me. I walk over to where he’s sitting and the smell becomes stronger, a pungent, ammonia smell and suddenly I identify it. It’s urine. I glance at Jakey and sure enough there’s a large dark area on his trousers around his groin.

  God, now what do I do? My first thought is Sarah, but she hasn’t emerged from her room, so I’m assuming she’s having a kip while Jake is busy watching telly. I can’t disturb her. So I’m left with two options: leave him like it, or sort him out.

  Looking back at him over my shoulder, I walk out of the room and head back upstairs. I’m going to run a bath, for heaven’s sake. You didn’t think I’d leave him like that, did you?

  In his room, which is also beautifully tidy, I find some clean pants and trousers in a chest of drawers. As I turn to walk out, I notice some bright red, shiny paper in tatters on the floor, and a cardboard box that says ‘Bear Factory’ on it. It’s the only thing out of place in there, so I crouch down to have a look. The red paper has a tag attached to it that says, ‘Jake, please look after this bear for me. His name is Bert. He needs lots of love and cuddles. All my love, Daddy. xxx’ The Bear Factory box has been pulled – or pushed – open, and its contents lifted – or climbed – out. It reminds me for a second of one of those monster movies where the scientists find the cage empty, with the bars prised apart, and start to look around worriedly. Bert is at large in the house.

  Getting Jake to come upstairs for a bath isn’t as hard as I thought it would be. I just said to him, ‘Come upstairs for a bath, Jakey,’ and he stood up. He’s still clutching the brown furry thing under his arm and I deduce that this is Bert, thankfully now captured and restrained. I leave Jake in privacy while he gets out of his clothes and into the bubbly water, and once I hear that he’s safely submerged, I knock and go back in. I’ve found a book in his room called Harry’s Half Adventure, so I sit on the toilet seat. Bert is peering at me intensely from the window sill.

  ‘Would you like me to read you a story?’ I ask him.

  ‘’Splease,’ he says and I get a huge whoosh of pleasure. He spoke to me! And he seems to have good manners.

  ‘All right then. This is called . . . Jake’s Half Adventure.’ As I read the story, I’m changing all the Harrys to Jakes, which is not as easy as it sounds. I suspect that Jake has heard this one already, and once or twice when I accidentally say, ‘But Harry didn’t go left, like he always does,’ Jake calls out, ‘Jake!’ He smiles at me and we share a small moment of connection. It leaves me almost unable to carry on reading.

  When the story is done, I tell him he needs to get out now and I stand up, ready to leave him in privacy to wrap himself in a towel, but he stands up in the water and puts his arms out to me, waiting to be lifted out.

  ‘You want me to pick you up?’

  He nods.

  ‘What, a great big fourteen-year-old like you?’

  ‘I’m six.’

  ‘Oh. Well, in that case . . .’ and I swoop down on him with the towel, bundle him up and lift him out. He’s not giggling, but he is smiling a little. Just a little.

  Between us we get him dry and dressed and head off back downstairs – not forgetting to retrieve Bert from the window sill. As I follow him down, Jake looks so much younger to me now than he did at his party nearly six months ago. He has Bert under one arm and the thumb of his other hand plugged firmly in his mouth. His hair at the back is damp still around the collar and his little neck looks so tender and precious as he bends his head forward. I don’t know if it’s Plum inside me or the sadness of what’s happened, but I’m feeling a very strong urge to wrap this little boy up in my arms and protect him from ever being hurt again.

  Towards the bottom of the stairs, he stumbles slightly and as he recovers his balance his arms go out and Bert falls from his grip. As it hits the floor, a strange thing happens. It speaks.

  ‘I love you, Jake,’ it says, in a growly bear voice.

  Jake and I freeze, staring at the thing lying on the floor in the hallway as if it’s been possessed by the evil restless spirit of a long-dead doctor who liked to disembowel people and stuff them at the weekend.

  ‘Bert can talk!’ Jake eventually exclaims, turning round to me with a great big grin on his face. ‘Did you hear that?’ And he leaps over the last remaining stair to land at Bert’s side. Apparently it was just me that thought it was possessed. Jake picks him up and squeezes him hard in the belly.

  ‘I love you, Jake,’ says the bear, although this time, because I’m expecting it, I realize that it’s not a soulless, demonic voice that strikes terror and dread into the heart of every man, woman and child. It’s Glenn.

  ‘I love you, Jake,’ it says again, and again, as Jake presses and presses and presses. After the fifth time I am sure, and I think that Jake is sure too, whose voice that is, even though it’s been disguised to sound growly and bear-like.

  Sarah comes down after a couple of hours. I’ve done my best to wash the damp sofa cushion and it’s outside on the line. Sarah looks at it quizzically, turning towards Jake with a frown.

  ‘I spilt some coffee,’ I say hurriedly, wondering as soon as I’ve said it why I did. Surely Sarah needs to be aware if Jake has started wetting himself? It might be linked to Glenn’s departure. I’ll tell her later, after he’s in bed. ‘Sorry.’

  She shrugs and heads for the kettle.

  Jake looks at me and smiles again. I really am starting to feel like a godmother.

  ‘I love you, Jake,’ says Bert suddenly, and Sarah jumps. ‘What the hell was that?’

  ‘It’s Bert,’ says Jake, pressing his tummy. ‘I love you, Jake.’

  Sarah of course recognizes the voice instantly. I hear her muttering, ‘Few flowers and a recording in a bear, still doesn’t . . .’

  I not
ice that once Jake and Sarah are reunited, Jake’s whole demeanour changes. While Sarah was sleeping, he definitely perked up, once I’d got him away from the telly, and he actually smiled for the first time I’ve seen since they turned up at my flat. But now, sat snuggled up in front of the telly next to his mum, he’s become withdrawn and subdued again. It’s obviously having a bad effect on him to see his mum so sad all the time. Maybe, after nearly two weeks, he’s adapted to his dad not being around now, but can’t deal with his mum’s depression.

  We phone for pizza. No one wants to cook and no one should have to.

  The three of us settle into an awkward routine over the next few days. I’m usually awake by six o’clock, so I get Jake up and let Sarah sleep on.

  ‘Good morning, Harry.’

  ‘Jake!’

  Then I drop him off at school before heading on to work. It’s great practice and now I’m wondering why I always used to think I didn’t know how to talk to him.

  In the evenings, I’ve taken to soaking in a hot bath after Jake’s in bed. It’s one of the few places where I can get comfortable these days as the bump kind of floats to the surface, and it gets me away from the black hole that is Sarah. She’s sucking all the life and light out of everything at the moment. Five minutes in her company and you start to feel lethargic and cheesed off. She’s like that thing in Star Trek that makes all the crew start fighting with each other.

  This routine goes on the same for about three weeks, so we can skip forward a bit. You can see from her face that Sarah’s mood hasn’t really improved, but I feel like I am actually doing some good here. Jake’s talking a lot more, although still silent and miserable around his mum, and Cosmo’s got a good social life going with the other moggies in the neighbourhood. I’m proud of him for making the effort to get out there and make friends.

  Anyway, I’m sleeping as well here as I would in my own bed and the truth is, Sarah’s house is a bit nearer Horizon. Those five minutes make a difference when you’re on your way home from work thirty-two weeks’ pregnant.