The Uncommon Life of Alfred Warner in Six Days

by Juliet Conlin

  But John let himself fall onto his bottom and began to grizzle.

  ‘He’s tired, love,’ Alfred said. ‘Why not put him to bed.’

  Isobel kneeled in front of John and held her fingers out again. ‘Come on, Johnnie, walk to Daddy.’

  John screwed up his face and began to cry more urgently.

  ‘No, he’s not tired,’ Isobel said, picking the child up once more. She put a finger to his mouth and parted his lips. ‘He’s teething. Look, the gum’s all red and swollen. Oh poor, poor laddie,’ she murmured. ‘Alfie, would you fetch the gin?’

  Alfred took a bottle of gin out of the walnut side table and passed it to Isobel. She soaked a handkerchief and began rubbing John’s gum with it. Soon, the boy stopped crying and finally fell asleep in her arms. The window rattled in its frame with a sudden gust of wind and Isobel shivered. Alfred got up to add some coal to the fire. It was early afternoon, but the December sky offered little light, and so they had switched on the floor lamp in the corner and the Christmas tree lights. The smell of the turkey dinner they’d eaten earlier still lingered in the room. Alfred sat down in an armchair opposite Isobel and watched her watch the baby. She had lost all the weight she’d gained in pregnancy – her light blue dress, fashionably nipped at the waist with a tapering skirt, was one of the few dresses she owned that wasn’t soiled by John’s sticky hands and mouth, or the contents of his stomach.

  Looking at her now, as she stroked the boy’s head with her small, soft hands, her neatly plucked eyebrows rising and falling in synchrony with the child’s slow breathing, Alfred couldn’t help but marvel at her devotion to the child. Early on, John had been a fussy baby, crying for hours on end for no apparent reason, with such unfailing gusto as to drive him, Alfred, almost to despair. But Isobel seemed to possess a sheer infinite source of patience and tenderness for the child. During the first few months, she had survived on as little as three hours of sleep a night, usually waking even before the boy began to cry for a feed – and yet she retained a brightness that was almost unnatural. It was clear that the baby had triggered a profound change in her, and at times, Alfred felt as though he were struggling to keep up.

  But he wasn’t dissatisfied; he had a good wife who was a good mother to his son. So what was he aching for? He felt suddenly drowsy and closed his eyes. The voices were murmuring among themselves just outside his range of hearing, though he couldn’t so much hear them as feel them. Suddenly, for the first time in several years, he found himself missing the daughter that had never lived with an acuteness that was almost painful. Then sleep snatched him away before he even realised it.

  In the summer of ’54, rationing was finally lifted completely.

  ‘And to celebrate,’ Isobel told Alfred, ‘we’re going to have a picnic in the park. With Sue and Mick.’

  ‘Remind me?’

  Isobel gave him a playful slap. She was evidently in a good mood. ‘Sue Cartwright. From church. Anyway, we’ve arranged it for next Sunday, three o’clock. They’ve got two children, just a wee bit older than Johnnie. It’ll be fun!’

  The following Sunday, they gathered on a section of grass behind the school, locally known as the park. It was a cool, dull day, but spirits were up, perhaps in anticipation of the promises implied by new consumerist liberties. Isobel had baked enough scones and jam tarts to feed two full-sized football teams; Sue, a rather unremarkable woman with a semi-permanent smile attached to her face, provided a surprisingly delicious cold lamb meatloaf and some oatcakes. Alfred recognised Mick from the local pub, and gave him a broad smile in greeting. Apart from three-year-old John, the two other children were Sally, eight, and William, four. Mick had brought beer and pop, and handed out the drinks.

  ‘Here’s to the end of austerity,’ he called, holding up his bottle.

  ‘And to the beginning of gluttony,’ Alfred echoed.

  Fat chance of that.

  He ignored the voice. His voice-women were particularly unsettled today, the youngest bristling with mischief, almost (he contemplated that evening) as if they were invoking some sort of trouble. Instead, he clinked his bottle of beer against Isobel’s lemonade and gave her a smile. Presently, the children began to whine that they were hungry, and Sue declared the picnic officially open. The two Cartwright children were allowed to help themselves to whatever took their fancy – jam tarts and scones, mainly – but Isobel insisted that John eat something sensible first, a sandwich, or perhaps a slice of meatloaf.

  ‘Come and sit here,’ she said, patting her lap. ‘Now, which do you want, sweetie? The meatloaf? Or a sandwich? Look, I could scrape off the yucky pickles for you.’

  Grudgingly, John sat down onto her lap and took two bites of meatloaf, which she fed him. Then she produced a handkerchief, licked a corner and wiped John’s mouth with it. A look passed between Sue and Mick, and Alfred caught it, and felt momentarily embarrassed for his son. A moment later, before his mother could stop him, John grabbed a couple of jam tarts and headed off to where the other two children were playing across the field.

  The adults then also helped themselves to the picnic and soon they sat in satiated silence among the empty hampers and baskets. Mick lay down on the blanket, propping himself up on his elbow. He lit a cigarette and looked up at the low grey sky. ‘The summer’s nowt to write home about.’

  ‘No,’ Sue agreed. She turned to Isobel. ‘Or do you prefer the heat, Isobel?’

  ‘Mmm.’ Isobel, who now gave this non-committal response, had for the past twenty minutes been casting nervous glances to where the children were playing at the edge of the field. She stood up.

  ‘John!’ she called. ‘Johnnie! Stay away from the stream! Be a good boy now!’

  Sue looked over at the children. ‘Oh, don’t worry. They’ll be fine. It’s only a yard wide. William and Sally love to jump over it. The worst that can happen is wet socks.’

  Isobel waited until John had moved away from the water and sat down again. ‘Children have been known to drown in a couple of inches of water,’ she said in an unnecessarily cool tone that surprised Alfred.

  ‘Well,’ Mick said, ‘Sally’s a strong swimmer. She’ll save him, if need be.’

  Alfred checked Mick’s face for a trace of sarcasm, but found nothing. Soon, the two boys had each picked up a long branch and were whacking the heads off dandelion clocks. Isobel shot them a worried glance.

  ‘He’s fine,’ Alfred told her quietly, sensing her tenseness.

  ‘I don’t think he should be playing with sticks,’ she said.

  ‘Boys and sticks,’ Mick said jovially, ‘the most natural union in the world. You know, when I was a young lad – hey! Watch it!’

  John had come flying across the group to Isobel, pursued by Sally, upsetting Mick’s beer and squashing a half-eaten sandwich into the blanket with his foot.

  ‘Steady on,’ Mick said, righting his bottle.

  ‘She pinched me,’ John said to his mother in a voice close to tears. He held out his arm. ‘Look.’ There was a reddish mark on his skin.

  ‘He was trying to look up my skirt,’ Sally said indignantly. ‘With his stick.’

  Behind her, William let out a snort of laughter.

  ‘Now, Sally,’ Mick said, but Isobel was already on her feet.

  ‘Did you pinch him?’ she asked Sally, a small tremor in her voice.

  Sally folded her arms across her chest. ‘He was trying to look up my skirt,’ she repeated.

  ‘But did you pinch him?’ Isobel asked sharply. Her face was flushed.

  Sally pressed her lips together.

  Alfred took John’s arm and rubbed it. ‘No harm done, love,’ he said to his wife. ‘They were just playing.’

  ‘Yeah, boys will be boys,’ Mick added.

  Isobel suddenly reached out to grab Sally’s wrist. ‘He’s just a little boy,’ she hissed.

  Sue stood up. ‘It’s all right, Isobel,’ she said, her smile now vanished. ‘I’ll scold my own children, if you don’t mind.’ S
he put out a hand for Sally and Isobel dropped the girl’s wrist. ‘And you can scold yours,’ she added.

  ‘Now, now,’ Mick said. ‘Let’s all calm down. Here – ’ he retrieved a tumbler from one of the hampers and filled half of it with beer. ‘I’ll make you ladies a nice shandy, what d’you think?’

  Isobel shook her head, and then sat down and took John onto her lap.

  They sat in silence for some time, until presently, the children got up and ran off again laughing, their quarrel now seemingly forgotten. Isobel stared after them for a long while. Alfred and the others began to reminisce about all the meals they’d missed during rationing, when a deep rumble of thunder came through from some black clouds to the west.

  ‘Let’s hope that rain brings a bit of cool air with it,’ Sue said. ‘This weather must be awful for the lawns at March House, eh, Alfred?’

  ‘We could certainly do with some – ’ Alfred began, but he was interrupted by a scream, followed by a howl. The adults’ heads turned like one to where the children were now racing, John in front, towards them. The boy was pale, a look of terror on his face.

  ‘Mummy!’ he shouted. ‘She’s going to hit me!’

  And indeed, Sally was almost on him, a stick in her raised hand. When she got closer, they could see tears streaming down her face.

  ‘What the – ’ Mick began, getting to his feet.

  ‘John, sweetie,’ Isobel said, also standing up and holding her arms open. John reached her and she took him in a tight hug, casting an angry look at Sally.

  ‘He hit me,’ Sally wailed, ‘he hit me with the stick.’ She half turned and put her leg out to show them. On her calf she had a nasty red welt, its edges already beginning to swell.

  ‘She pinched me again, Mummy,’ John said. ‘She pinched me really hard so I hit her.’

  All the adults were on their feet now. Sue and Mick were standing either side of Sally. Sue put her hand to Sally’s leg, but she pulled away, wincing. ‘Don’t touch it!’

  Alfred spoke to John. ‘Why did you hit her?’

  ‘She pinched him again,’ Isobel said. ‘She pinched a boy less than half her age.’

  ‘Look at her leg!’ Sue cried. ‘He might be little, but he’s old enough to know not to whack people with sticks.’

  ‘He was looking up my skirt again, Mum,’ Sally said in a flat voice.

  Isobel pressed John closer to her. ‘He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He’s only a wee boy.’

  ‘And that’s all you’re going to say, is it? He doesn’t know what he’s doing?’ Sue kept her voice raised. ‘He knew what he was doing when he attacked her with a stick!’

  ‘Sally’s a bully, that’s what she is!’ Isobel said shrilly. ‘I’ve a right mind to – ’

  ‘To what?’ Mick said, thrusting his chin out in her direction.

  Alfred turned to him. ‘Come on, now, Mick, let’s all keep our tempers. They’re just children.’

  The air was heavy with the smell of rain. In the distance, in the neighbouring field, a herd of cows was moving towards the cover of the trees. Sue took a step forward to stand in front of Sally. ‘No. I’d like to know what she has a mind to do.’

  Isobel pulled back her shoulders. ‘I’ve – I’ve a right mind to give her a good spanking.’

  ‘Ha!’ Sue let out a hard laugh. ‘Spank my child? Well, beg my pardon for being frank, but I think you should start with your own. The little pervert.’

  ‘Hey,’ Alfred said, taking a step forward with his palm raised. ‘Watch your tone.’

  The children were just standing there now, subdued, fearful of what they might have unleashed.

  ‘He’s not a pervert!’ Isobel cried. ‘He’s three years old.’

  ‘He’s a mummy’s boy, is what he is,’ Sue said, her voice low and dangerous. ‘Ask anyone. A spoiled brat.’ She looked to her husband for confirmation. He nodded gravely.

  Fragments of sounds began to bounce around inside Alfred’s head.

  John – spoiled – pervert – brat.

  ‘Is there something you’d like to say, Mick?’ he asked before he could stop himself.

  ‘I’m saying,’ Mick said, taking a step forward, so that Alfred could smell beer and pickle on his breath, ‘I’m saying that that son of yours obviously thinks it’s okay to hit a girl. Now where could he’ve got such an idea from?’

  A flash of anger whipped through Alfred. He felt his fists clenching

  Now, don’t let him provoke you, Alfred. Don’t do something you might regret.

  Fight! Fight! Fight! Ksss, show the bastard!

  and his heart throbbing in his throat. The men stood facing one another wordlessly. It was Sue who finally spoke. ‘Don’t give him the satisfaction,’ she said to Mick.

  Mick lifted a finger and pointed it at Alfred’s face. ‘If it weren’t for the women and children here, I’d have you.’

  A hush fell over the group. Then Sue stooped to pick up her hamper.

  ‘This could’ve been such a lovely day,’ she said quietly. ‘Come on, children. We’re going home.’

  Alfred opened his mouth to speak, but failed to think of anything to say that might salvage the situation. His heart was still beating hard. He waited until the Cartwrights were out of earshot, and then said to Isobel, ‘I thought you were friends?’

  To which she responded by taking John’s hand. ‘Apparently not.’

  They got caught in the rain on the way home. Isobel didn’t say a single word as they drudged back to the cottage, but Alfred was bristling with embarrassment, anger and sheer incredulity that the situation could have got out of hand so quickly. He hoped he wouldn’t run into Mick Cartwright again soon.

  For Isobel, by contrast, Alfred’s actions at the picnic had elevated him to the status of hero. In the days, then weeks that followed, he would come home to find Isobel waiting at the living room window, John – always – in her arms. ‘Here comes your brave daddy,’ she would coo when he arrived through the door, planting a kiss on his cheek and lifting up John to do the same. ‘Daddy’s a big brave man,’ she’d say, and ‘The only one around here that’s allowed to pinch you is me,’ chasing a gleeful and whooping John around the room, pinch-tickling him until tears of laughter rolled down his face.

  It disconcerted Alfred. It was one thing to stand up for your family, he thought, but another thing entirely to let the boy think that what had happened at the picnic – John’s actions as well as his own – were somehow sanctionable. It had been wrong to let the matter get out of hand, and John should be made aware of that. Isobel evidently read the situation entirely differently; her son, that fountain of joy, that vessel of innocence, could do no wrong.

  But Alfred now began to notice things. He noticed that Isobel, despite John’s plump and sturdy legs, would carry the boy great distances rather than let him – make him – walk, hoisted on her hip as though he weighed only a few pounds. He noticed, for the first time (how could he have missed it so far?), when they took him to the playground where the other village children – some twenty of them between the ages of one and twelve – congregated, how quick and willing Isobel was to come to the boy’s defence when he had kicked over another child’s sandcastle or stood at the top of the slide, refusing to let others pass.

  Alfred noticed all these things and didn’t like it. At night, lying awake while Isobel slept beside him, waiting for the moment when John would inevitably come running – tap tap tap – into their room and slide into bed between them, he appealed to his voice-women.

  You need to put your foot down, Alfred. You’re the boy’s father.

  ‘I know,’ he said silently, gloomily. ‘But I don’t think Isobel sees it the way I do.’

  She’s blind with love – she means no harm, but she’s ruining the child.

  ‘Don’t you understand? She lost a child, remember?’

  Of course, but then so did you. And your duty is now to this child.

  Yes. Talk to her, Alfred.

 
But his attempts to discuss matters with Isobel were fruitless.

  ‘He’s just a wee lad,’ she would say, when Alfred pointed out that the boy was perfectly capable of walking and didn’t need to be carried all the time. Or, when John would snatch a toy from another child who came to visit, she’d say, ‘He’s a little impatient, I’ll give you that, but just because he’s curious.’ His proneness to tears was due to his ‘sensitivity’, his temper tantrums were an expression of his ‘high spirits’. John’s transgressions towards other children, the kicking and hitting, she would pretend not to notice, or justify with, ‘He didn’t start it. He has a right to defend himself.’

  And so it went on, until Alfred, coming home one evening shortly before John’s fourth birthday, found that the boy had taken a knife to the wisteria roots at the front of the house, destroying, in one fell swoop, decades’ worth of slow, delicate growth – and he realised, sickeningly and shamefully, that he actually disliked his own son. But the feeling, acute and fierce one moment, faded almost immediately, leaving behind, however, a vague sense of loss. And this might have marked the beginning of an entirely novel kind of heartache for Alfred, had he not one day witnessed something truly wondrous: he overheard John talking to himself.

  Nineteen Ninety-Five

  The first thing the therapist says is Take your shoes off, please, because sometimes she asks people to lie down on the floor as part of therapy and it would be unhygienic to make them lie on a carpet that’s covered in street dirt. You take off your shoes and cross the room and sit down on the chair the therapist points at. You look down at the carpet. It is the colour of mud. There are loads of grey fluffy bits sticking to it and probably billions of germs. You hope you won’t have to lie down there.

  The therapist is about the same age as your mom, maybe thirty-five or a bit older. She’s not as pretty as your mom, though; her front teeth stick out over her bottom lip and when she speaks, a very white speck of saliva collects in the corner of her mouth. Every now and again, her tongue curls out and licks the saliva off. Her tongue is very red and shiny, like liver. She is wearing a blue wool dress and a long bead necklace that makes soft clicking sounds like dried bones whenever she moves.