I just hope I can stay awake long enough for Homework Club tonight, and then the arrival of Kevin, who emailed last night to say he’s coming in today for his little chat. I have decided I am not going to go to any trouble by dressing up for him. It’s not a date, I no longer fancy him, thanks to his man-slutty tendencies, and actually, he’ll probably only be with me for about a zillionth of a second, as Connor appears to have been getting on just fine since his return to school. So, all being well, I’ll be able to go to the pictures tonight and then maybe on to an Internet café, where I can set up a profile on www. DoMeNowButDontExpectARelationshipOutOfItCosImOnly InItToGetOverMyEx.com.
It’s windy out, rain is pouring, and I remember that today’s the day the bin men come. I toy with leaving a note for Meredith (still asleep) saying, ‘Please put the bins out,’ but she might misinterpret that, thinking what I actually meant to write was, ‘Please put the bins out and I’ll put out for you tonight,’ or some such. So I drag the recycling and normal waste out of their bins in the kitchen, tie them up and head out the front door, where our big army-green Newham council bins sit like cubist plastic hedges before each door.
As I come back in, a gust of wind from the open door shoots down the hallway and various bits of collected dust – that I’ve not hoovered up – jump into the air. Anything that’s not tied down flutters around. It’s quite a magical sight, actually, and I leave the door open as I stand there watching the dance. Eventually I close it, and I feel like some mystical witch, walking through the house as the detritus of my life flaps around me, then – as quickly as it started – suddenly settles down.
In the kitchen a receipt-sized piece of paper has landed on the table. I pick it up to inspect it, in case it’s something I need to hang on to.
And I get a shock.
Actually, I get the shock of my life.
This is what the paper looks like:
I check the date on it and feel sick. It has last weeks date on it.
I sit at the kitchen table and reread it. The paper trembles in my hand as I take in what it means.
I know what ‘STRD, W’ stands for. It stands for ‘Stratford Depot, westbound’. I know what this is. It’s a Tube driver’s weekly roster. Michael is driver 302. This is his roster, and it is his roster from last week, and it is in my house, and I have no idea why. I have no idea how it came to be here. I recheck the date and make sure it’s not from this time last year, but no, it’s this year’s. How did it come to be here? It makes no sense.
The only explanation I can come up with, and it’s one that makes my heart pound in my chest, is that Michael has been in this house in the last week.
He has a key – it would be easy enough for him to let himself in when I wasn’t here – and thinking about it, the house is empty every day between half seven in the morning and, say, five in the evening. That’s a lot of hours.
Has Michael been back? He must have been. How else would his roster have made it into my kitchen? But what has he been doing here? Maybe he has been getting clothes. I’m so lost in thought I don’t hear Meredith coming down the stairs and into the kitchen. I quickly put the roster in my pocket.
‘Hello, stranger! How’s you?’
I nod. ‘Good, thanks. Just off to the gym.’
‘Good for you. Hey, d’you know what?’
‘What?’ I look at her, feigning interest.
‘I think your mum might be right. I think you might have rats or something in the loft. Heard some scratching last night.’
I tell her I’ll look into it tonight. For now I have bigger things to worry about, so head on out to the gym.
All day long my mind keeps returning to the roster in my pocket and the various scenarios I am coming up with for Michael returning to the house. If only Meredith hadn’t come down when she did, I might have nipped upstairs and taken a look in the wardrobe. I bet some of his clothes are missing. I wonder if anything else has gone. I try and work out ways to trap him, next time he returns. Maybe he sits down the road, at a lookout, waiting till I’ve gone to work. Maybe I need to go out of the front of the house, walk down the street as if nothing is out of the ordinary. Then once I’ve turned the corner, I need to run round to the street behind me and somehow get into my backyard. In order to do that, though, I need to get through the house behind me. That isn’t going to work. I can’t knock on their door and go, ‘Sorry, can I walk through your house? I want to get into mine the back way and surprise my ex.’ If someone did that to me, I’d assume they were a bit bonkers and tell them where to get off. I think. Although now I’ve thought about it, I decide that if anyone ever does present me with this scenario, I will definitely let them in, even offering to give them a leg-up over the back wall if necessary.
But then I think, Well, maybe he won’t come back again. Maybe this was a one-off. Maybe my one chance to nab him has been and gone.
And even if I did ‘nab’ him, what would I say? Would I really expect him to open up to me if he’s not responded to that rather patient card I sent him? If he has thus far offered up not one word of explanation, why would he choose to do so if I cornered him, unsuspecting, in our house?
It’s not like I can hold him up at gunpoint, like in some big crime movie, and say, ‘Come on, Michael. Spill. Tell me why you jibbed me, or this bitch shoots.’
No. I would never do that. Except perhaps with a water pistol, which wouldn’t have the same effect.
I set up Homework Club not long after I joined Fountain Woods. It’s something I did at my first school when I realized that a lot of kids, and not just those with special educational needs, were struggling to get their homework done, either because of a chaotic home life or because their parents just weren’t up to helping them if they were struggling. Then the kids would come into school and be berated for being lazy, when actually, maybe they had tried to get the work done, but they didn’t have enough support or the right setting to make that possible. Anyway, I set up Homework Club for those who want to come to my room after school each day and have an hour in which they can work in a relatively quiet environment, and if they need help, I am on hand to offer it. I can get anything from between three and twenty kids each day. I enjoy helping them. It only adds an extra hour on to my working day, and because everybody knows it’s something I do off my own back, if a teacher is off sick and they have to choose someone to cover their lessons, they very rarely ask me. Plus it gives me a massive amount of brownie points with the head.
I’m just helping Elizabeth from my class look up some info on oxbow lakes on one of the computers when I realize there is another grown-up in the room. I see his reflection in the window in front of me and turn to see Kevin’s here. He must be early.
As if reading my mind, he says, ‘I must be early, sorry.’
‘Don’t be, but don’t you dare help any of them. You’re not CRB-checked!’
He grimaces and pretends to back out of the room, which makes me and a few of the kids laugh, but then one of the kids calls out a ‘hello’ to him, and calls him Kevin, and Kevin meanders over and sits next to him and talks to him about what he’s up to.
Somehow we end up running Homework Club together for the last ten minutes or so. I’m impressed with how lovely he is with the kids, and how nice his clothes are. And how he fills them. Call me shallow, but whenever I meet anyone, I do a onceover of their outfit and ask myself, Could I live with this look in a life partner? I used to do it all the time when I was with Michael. Michael’s fashion is very Fred Perry T-shirts, skinny jeans and trainers. Kevin’s is more your baggy jeans and – well, today, anyway – bright red, slightly loose, V-neck cashmere jumper with what appear to be brand-new Caterpillar boots. I’m not usually a big fan of Caterpillar boots – in fact I’m pretty sure the phrase ‘I can’t bear Caterpillar boots’ has come out of my mouth at some point in the not-too-distant past – but these boots he is wearing have the unscruffiness of a brand-new pair. Teamed with the baggy j
eans and the red jumper, they lend him an unthreatening air. The air, almost, of an anodyne kids’ TV presenter, though that makes him sound a bit wimpy. And those pecs and the thickness of his arm muscles (biceps?) straining at the red cashmere certainly don’t say ‘wimp’ to me.
He has a smallish mouth, slightly downturned, which punctuates the salt-and-pepper stubble, from a few days, I assume, of not shaving. His nose looks like it has been broken in the past (from a batteringly jealous husband of some woman he’s slept with, perhaps?), but it’s his eyes that are his most striking feature. They’re quite small, with creases underneath that don’t speak of age but of pain. A beautiful pain. And I can’t take my eyes off them. They’re the palest blue I’ve ever seen, and when they twinkle, like when he’s laughing or interested, or about to crack a joke, then Irish eyes certainly are smiling. For the first time in my life I really get that phrase.
When eventually the kids have gone, he helps me tidy up the unit and we chat as we’re doing it. I relay all the information he needs – that Connor has settled back into school perfectly and there is nothing to worry about – and once I realize that, professionally, there is nothing else to speak about, I feel a pang of disappointment.
Remember, though, Karen, this here is a lady’s man. He was seeing other women while his wife was dying in hospital. That is not the sign of a decent human being.
I try to match that description of Kevin to the Kevin I see before me – the sweet-natured guy who obviously cares about his son’s welfare (if only all the parents were like that), the guy who was conflicted about party platters at the supermarket that day – and I wonder, Is he really a wolf in sheep’s clothing?
I am thinking all this, of course, and not saying it out loud, and he takes my silence to be boredom and says he should probably let me get on. Though he then adds, ‘Connor’s dead lucky having you as his teacher. You’re cool.’
Oh my God, he called me ‘cool’. Is that really a compliment? I have never told someone to their face that they’re cool, even if I’ve thought it. I wonder if it’s just part of his lady-chatting-up shtick.
‘Ah, but once you get to know me,’ I argue warmly, ‘you soon realize that all that glitters isn’t gold.’
He laughs. ‘I bet that’s so not true.’
We head out of the unit together. I’m now wishing I’d made more of an effort with my clothes.
‘So what does the weekend have in store for Miss Carpenter?’ he asks as we amble through the playground.
‘Oh, very little. I’m the most boring cow in the universe. What about you?’
‘The same really. Connor’s staying at his nan’s for the weekend, so I’m kicking around on my own.’
I nearly say it. I nearly say, ‘Oh, we should kick around together,’ but it feels inappropriate, even if I do know he’s a bit of a stud and would probably therefore not be offended or surprised that I’d said it. There’s an awkward pause when neither of us speaks. We’re at the gates now.
I open my mouth and say, ‘Well, it was nice to see you, and thanks for coming in –’
Just at the same time that he opens his and says, ‘This is probably bang out of order, but if you fancy some company –’
Then we both shut up.
It has been said.
A line has been crossed, and there’s no pretending it hasn’t, and there’s no going back. I don’t know what to say. I know what I want to say; I want to say yes. Yes, sod it. In for a penny, in for a pound. But you know me – I usually screw these things up and say the complete opposite of what I want to say.
Kevin looks gutted. ‘Sorry. Me and my mouth.’
I want to say, ‘You have a very lovely mouth.’
And thank God I don’t say that. Instead I throw caution to the wind and say, ‘Yeah. We could do something tomorrow.’
The relief on his face is just joyous.
But he’s a dirty old man.
Well, he’s not that old, and we’re only two people meeting to keep each other company.
He might jump your bones.
Well, wouldn’t that be a shame?
What if he doesn’t jump your bones? Will you be gutted?
Of course not. Two lonely people, keeping each other company. I don’t know how many times I have to say it!
Is it unprofessional? Hooking up with the parent of one of your kids?
No. More professional than hooking up with an actual kid, that’s for sure.
He’s asking me what I fancy doing. He’s suggesting maybe we could head into town.
I tell him yes. I’ll meet him outside that theatre where Singin’ in the Rain is on in the West End. I pluck a time out of the air. Three o’clock.
He grabs my arm, squeezes it, says, ‘Excellent,’ then squeezes it again and walks off down the road.
His arse isn’t bad either.
I decide to miss the pictures tonight and head home. I can brag to Meredith about my date, thus reinforcing my sexuality to her. When I get home, though, she’s not in. I put the kettle on and make myself a black Earl Grey. I take the roster out of my pocket and read it for the zillionth time today. Funny. Now I have an impending date with Kevin, it bothers me less that Michael has been home without my knowledge. The longer I sit there, though, staring at the paper, the less comfortable I get. Am I really doing the right thing? Meeting up with the parent of one of my pupils? A guy who, according to his neighbour, puts it about a bit. He seems so nice on the surface, but maybe she’s right. Scratch said surface on any bloke and they turn out to be a bit of a bastard.
Then I start fretting about Meredith. Why have I moved someone into the house who is blatantly in love with me and has picked up on lezzy signs in me that I didn’t even know I had! And then there’s the impending dinner with Swinging Blue Jeans Mungo and Fionnula next weekend. How did I get myself into that mess? Then there’s Mum. With Jorgen. And Dad not knowing. And before I know it, my heart is racing and I realize I’m having a panic attack. I stand and pace round the room, taking big gasps of air. Which is when I hear something.
It’s something falling over upstairs. Falling over and smashing.
Someone is in the house. No, they can’t be.
‘Meredith?’ I call out, but no reply comes.
Has somebody broken in?
Then I hear something else. A scratch-scratch upstairs. So maybe Mum was right. And Meredith. Maybe I do have rats in the loft. I slowly climb the stairs, trying to be as quiet as I can, waiting to see if I hear the sound again.
I stand on the landing. Nothing. I walk to my bedroom. Behind the door I keep a pole with a hook on the end. I take it back onto the landing and slowly raise it to meet the hook on the hatch that leads into the loft. I unhook it. It falls down and slowly my loft ladder descends.
I don’t really want to see any rats. I don’t really relish the prospect of coming face to face with vermin. I place the pole back in the bedroom, then return to the ladder.
Would rats really knock something over up there? Something that would smash and make that noise?
Maybe.
I climb the ladder carefully, grabbing on to the cold metal sides, but before I’m even halfway up, I look into the black, black square, the only bit of the loft I can see from here, and I stop. Like really stop. I grip on to the ladder for dear life. It feels like my heart has actually stopped beating.
Because I see a pair of eyes staring back at me.
And they’re not rat’s eyes; they’re human eyes.
And I’d know those eyes anywhere.
They’re Michael’s.
FOURTEEN
I don’t know if you’ve ever bumped into your ex after a month or two of not seeing him, a month or two when he’s completely cut you stone dead. No contact, nothing. And if you have been in this situation, I have no idea what you might have done. I would have expected to stand there and talk to him, shout at him, throw missiles at him, Exocets hopefully, but I do none of these things. Instead I scream. A reall
y good scream. ‘Piercing’ is the only word for it, like something out of a horror film. I scream. Then I run down the stairs. I open the front door and I keep on running. I run down the street. I turn onto the main road and run past the shops. I’m going at quite a speed and have to dodge several startled people coming out of them, or ambling along. Why do people amble? Can’t they see I’m . . . I’m . . .
What am I doing?
I don’t know.
I don’t know why I’m running away from the one person I’ve been dying to see these past weeks, but I am. And now I have started, I am going to keep on running until I drop down dead. So in a way I’m now dying not to see him.
I must be going mad.
I am running faster than I’ve ever run before.
I’ll tell you something for nothing – I can’t keep this up.
I have a pain in my chest. Oh God, I’m having a heart attack. Talk about killing two birds with one stone. I am not only going mad but I am going to die of a heart attack. Physical and mental illness in one fell swoop. Jeez.
But no, it’s not a heart attack, I realize. I just have a stitch. I turn through a gate in some railings into the little kids’ swing park thing. The feel of the ground beneath me changes; it’s softer underfoot now as the turquoise flooring in here is all spongy and bouncy in case toddlers fall off a roundabout or something. It’s health and safety gone mad, of course, but right now I don’t care. It feels nice. It feels good. And I enjoy the comfort of it as I bend over to get my breath back. I realize I’m making strange whimpering noises as I pant to get more oxygen into my body. I sound like a tennis player at Wimbledon on speed. I stand upright, starting to feel a bit better, the stitch slowly subsiding, and go and plonk myself on one of the swings.
The Confusion of Karen Carpenter Page 15