‘Remember when the monkey ran, Daddy?’ asks Lyra.
‘Yes, princess,’ says Greg, before giving her a kiss on the forehead. He then crouches down so that he is eye to eye with Moses and says, ‘I think you should choose what’s next, buddy.’
Moses throws his hands up in the air and says, ‘Fish!’
‘The master has spoken,’ says Greg.
The aquarium houses not only fish but also a collection of intimidating-looking lizards and snakes, which the girls take turns pushing each other towards while squealing. ‘They’re pretty rad kids,’ I say to Greg as we watch them.
‘Aren’t they,’ says Greg. ‘They’re the best thing I’ve ever done.’ I feel like if anyone else had said this it would sound cheesy but he really means it.
‘It’s hard being a single parent, though?’ I ask.
‘It gets better,’ says Greg. ‘You’ll be OK.’
‘How do you know? I … I mean, what makes you think I need to be OK?’ I think I ask this a little too aggressively because Greg holds his palms up in a gesture of surrender before speaking.
‘You’ve just been out of sorts lately and then the change in shifts and the whole retreat thing and picking you up at your mum’s. I assumed …’
I almost tell him to mind his own business but I look at how much fun Moses is having chasing the girls round a pillar and I say, ‘It’s shit, isn’t it.’
‘It’s the worst kind of shit,’ says Greg, ‘but then it’s a little less shit and then it’s even less shit than that and then one day you wake up and realize it’s only slightly shit.’
‘A soupçon of shit,’ I say.
‘Just a light smattering of shit,’ says Greg, and we smile at each other. The girls run over to us, with Moses following, and proclaim abject boredom.
‘Ready for some grub?’ says Greg to cheers all round.
The restaurant has an animal theme and a menu of basic foods with exotic names – crazy cobra chocolate cake and lion’s tail pasta. Greg tells the girls to pick a sandwich each but they have already caught the scent of chips and make it clear that they are unwilling to compromise.
‘Come on, girls,’ says Greg. ‘We’ve had a lovely day, let’s not ruin it. We had chips yesterday and chips aren’t a healthy food.’ I recognize his voice as a ‘parenting in public’ one. To many people it might sound like a calm, reassuring tone but other parents can detect the slightly sinister edge to it. Sadly, Charlotte and Lyra don’t. Lyra starts to wail and Charlotte begins kicking a wall with a surprising amount of ferocity.
Greg starts to blush. ‘If you keep behaving like this we will have to go home and you will not like that and it won’t be fair on Moses,’ he says. I look at Moses; having forgotten his buggy he has done more walking than he’s ever done in his life and he looks like he’d be well up for going home, but I don’t say anything. ‘Girls, I mean it,’ he says.
I step forward and place my hand on Charlotte’s shoulder. She stops kicking the wall and I think for a second she’s going to redirect her aim at me but she simply looks at me. Her sister stops crying and does the same.
‘Your dad’s right,’ I say, ‘chips aren’t healthy. So if you want them you have to eat something healthy with them to balance it. How’s this for a deal? If you want chips, you have to have a serving of vegetables first, a big one.’ The girls both tip their heads to the side to ponder my offer. I steal a glance at Greg; I’m worried he might be offended at my heavy-handedness but he looks as if he might kiss me.
After a couple of minutes of deliberation and several rounds of eeny meeny, Lyra decides to play it safe with a ham sandwich and Charlotte chooses chips along with a serving of broccoli. We find some seats and settle down to eat. Charlotte immediately starts shovelling broccoli into her mouth, eager to get to the main attraction. Greg tells her to slow down but she shoots him a look that makes clear that eating slowly was not in the contract.
‘When we’ve finished this, I’ve got a great idea about what we should do,’ I say.
‘What?!’ shouts Lyra.
‘Go and watch the penguins have their lunch!’
Lyra cheers and her sister nods, her mouth still filled with greenery. Greg reaches a fist across the table and I give it a little bump with my own.
The penguin enclosure is quite a walk from the cafe so Greg offers to put Moses on his shoulders. Moses finds this to be the most exciting thing that’s happened all day and I wonder if taking toddlers on day trips is a waste of time and effort. When we reach the pool I lead the way to the best spot, a small ledge on the far side, from where you can see every angle. I remember my dad bringing me here when I was a kid and sitting with him for hours watching the birds. Every now and then he would say, ‘You ready to go, love?’ And I would usually say no and we would sit in silence for another twenty minutes. When I was around twelve my mum adopted a penguin in my name, which I think meant I had my name on the wall somewhere and I paid for his fish for the year, but by that time I was kinda over penguins, so I never went to visit him.
The zookeeper is telling us about how penguins hunt in their natural habitat. ‘This bit’s rubbish,’ I whisper to Charlotte. She wrinkles her nose with pleasure at an adult saying something naughty. The zookeeper picks up her bucket and the penguins all do their little Charlie Chaplin waddle over to her. She then starts to throw the fish into the water and they dive after them. I remember why I loved the penguins so much; on land they seem silly and ungainly but then they hit the water and they’re so agile and graceful you realize you were wrong to laugh at them, because underneath it all, they’re badass.
Lyra tugs at my hand. ‘I can’t see,’ she says. I put my hands under her armpits and haul her on to my hip. There, she wraps her legs around me and nuzzles her head into my shoulder.
After the penguins, we decide to call it a day. Greg carries Moses back to the car and Charlotte and Lyra each hold one of my hands. On the drive back the kids all fall asleep so Greg and I sit in silence so as not to wake them. I watch him drive, shifting smoothly between gears and lanes; it feels nice to be with someone so in control. As I watch Greg’s broad, smooth hands work the steering wheel I am reminded of the phrase ‘a safe pair of hands’. I think with Alexander I just wanted to feel safe. Not feeling safe is exhausting. I message George.
Marthashotbod: I miss you.
My phone rings out an alert when he replies and I whisper, ‘Sorry,’ to Greg.
Undeterred83: I miss you more.
17
LEANNE KNOCKS ON Mum’s door at 7 a.m., a plan that I felt so positive about the night before but now every cell of my body is rejecting. I try to lure her in with coffee but she won’t be distracted; she stays bouncing up and down on the doorstep, her bobbing ponytail exhibiting more enthusiasm than I can muster. ‘Have you got those endorphins I keep hearing about?’ I ask as I shrug into my hoodie.
‘Honestly, babe, it feels like shit for a bit but then there’s this point you just break through and get this rush.’ She stops bouncing and pulls her left foot up to her bum, and then repeats the move with the other leg.
‘It sounds like losing your virginity,’ I say.
‘Only so much better,’ says Leanne, returning to the bouncing.
‘It’d better be better than that German exchange student slapping my arse like I’m a horse struggling up a hill,’ I say.
‘Exactly,’ says Leanne. ‘If you could pretend to enjoy that, this will be a piece of piss.’
It’s not. By the time we get to the newsagent’s round the corner, my shins feel like they’re on fire. Leanne tries to tell me about warming up and lactic acid but I can’t run and listen and breathe so I don’t take it in. I think about stopping and getting a Cherryade and a packet of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos from Mr Chaudry, the ever-present proprietor, but as Leanne pulls ahead it occurs to me that this experience is like so many others I have had. So many times I’ve had a goal or an opportunity and I’ve given it up before I’ve really got g
oing; I’ve watched everyone else get ahead as I sat at home and ate Cheetos.
We reach the park and I think this seems like an apt juncture to turn back but Leanne is just getting started. ‘We’ll only do two laps of the park,’ she says. ‘At this stage it doesn’t matter how fast you go, just don’t stop moving.’ Leanne sets off at a pace I would use to flee a pursuing assailant, and even if I wanted to try and stay with her I know it wouldn’t be physically possible. Instead I move at a speed that isn’t walking but could not truthfully be called running; it’s a kind of trot and I’m sure it looks ridiculous. It doesn’t feel completely ridiculous, though; it feels kind of good. I’m enveloped in a peculiar feeling, a kind of fizziness in my tummy, and it takes me a few minutes to recognize it for what it is: excitement. The second lap feels harder; the knowledge that I am only halfway through becomes a weight on my back. I repeat Leanne’s words in my head – don’t stop moving. This seems to help and I speak them quietly; then louder, the rhythm of the words matching my steps.
When I finish the lap, Leanne is sitting on the ground with her legs stretched out in front of her and her head bowed forward and resting comfortably on her knees. I fall on to the ground beside her, breathing heavily and trying to focus on the cartoonish, fluffy clouds above my head. Leanne sits up and looks down on me. She has a slightly troubled expression. ‘How you doing?’ she asks.
I close my eyes for a second and when I open them she’s leaning in towards me. I give her a weak smile and say, ‘I feel all right.’
Leanne springs up and holds out her hand. ‘That’ll do for me,’ she says.
When I get home I can hear that the flurry of morning activity is well underway. I sit on the stairs and message George.
Marthashotbod: Just completed a few laps of St Ann’s.
Undeterred83: I love running there.
This makes me decide I’m going to do it again tomorrow and it’s the first time I feel grateful that I’m living with Mum and Dad. Moving back to your parents’ in your thirties would be a soul-destroying experience were it not for all the free childcare. When I was in a partnership I thought single parenting would be nothing but toil and turmoil, but compared to the casual efforts at fatherhood made by Alexander on a day-to-day basis, and having Mum to get up with Moses, ferry him to nursery and make him nutritious meals, single parenting feels quite freeing.
It also means I’ve had no further encounters with my soon-to-be ex-husband. It’s not that I don’t want to see him; I do. At least, I think I do, but I want him to come to me. I want him to realize the colossal hole I have left in his life and seek me out. We’ve still managed to avoid contact with each other. He’s collected Moses from nursery or I’ve asked Mum to drop him off. Mum always gives me a little description of Alexander after an encounter, however brief – he looks so tired; he’s a broken man; he didn’t say it but he misses you. That I believe, but I’m sure what he misses most is the way I magically created clean, folded laundry from dirty clothes. My mother’s continued advocacy for Alexander angers me no end; what happened to being on my side? Moses would have to murder several innocent strangers in cold blood before I would even think to utter anything that suggested that I was not completely on his team.
Mum comes into the hallway and pours some water into a flower arrangement on the sideboard. I think I may have let my frustrations with her show, that they may have seeped out, despite my best efforts, through the suspiciously loud crunch of toast or a smile held for just not long enough. I think this is why, as I sit on the stairs, clammy but triumphant, she casually informs me that she has landed me right in it.
‘I’ve agreed to go and visit Mrs Jenson – you know, the lady that lived next door but one? Now she’s in one of those wretched facilities. I mean, would you ever do that to me?’ She stares at me as I pull off my trainers. When I look at her, it’s clear she’s waiting for me to respond.
‘No, Mum.’ She wrinkles her nose. Right answer but too late, so still wrong.
‘She hasn’t got anyone to see her there. I mean, she’s got children and grandchildren, but the son is so cold; he was always giving me those stiff little waves. I’ve made her some of my famous banana cake.’
I rub my feet. I can already tell I’m going to get a blister on the back of my right heel. ‘That’s nice of you then, Mum.’
‘Are you being sarcastic?’ she says.
‘No,’ I say clearly, careful to ensure an even tone.
‘Well, I can’t tell with you. Everything sounds like you’re taking the mickey. Some things in life are serious, you know.’
I stand up quickly and turn to go up the stairs as I say, ‘That, I know.’
‘Anyway,’ she says. She speaks quickly, sensing she’s losing me. ‘You can’t stay late at work as you’ll have to be here when Alexander collects Moses. He said he’ll keep him and take him to nursery in the morning.’ I’ve already started up the stairs and it’s as if my brain takes a few seconds to translate the sound to words. By the time I’ve understood I’m halfway up. I rush back down to the bottom, so that I’m eye to eye with my mother.
‘Can’t Dad watch Moses?’
‘Don’t be silly, he’s driving me. What, do you think I’m going to drive there on my own?’
I want to shout, ‘Yes, Mum, do something on your own, it might be good for you, you might learn something. Some of us don’t have the choice!’ Luckily, I’m exhausted by the exercise, or my circumstances, or both, and instead I say, ‘You should have checked with me; I can’t just tell them I’m not working late.’
‘For God’s sake, you’ve put in loads of hours there recently, don’t they owe you? Anyway, you’re one of the ones in charge – just give yourself some time off.’
I may have let my mother think I have more responsibility at my job than I do. I may have intimated to her that I manage some things and possibly some people. I’ve never said it outright, but I’ve never disabused her of any beliefs she may have had along these lines and now does not feel like the time for honesty. Mum takes my silence as acceptance, which I suppose it is.
I arrive in the office ten minutes early rather than with seconds to spare. The knowledge that I am going to be face to face with Alexander again has given me a burst of adrenaline. I power walk from the bus stop, then become impatient waiting for the lift’s slow descent and take the stairs, two at a time. When I reach my floor, I see Greg standing in the little square of carpet between flights. His eyes are trained on his phone and both of his thumbs are working across the screen. He is so engrossed in the task he doesn’t seem to hear me coming and doesn’t look up until I’m inches away from him. When he does he breaks into a smile and shoves his phone into his pocket. ‘You shit the bed?’ he asks.
‘What?! No!’ I say sharply. This day is stressful enough without my workmates accusing me of incontinence. Greg looks shocked and reaches out as if I might trip and he wants to be there to steady me.
‘Sorry,’ he says, ‘just something my mum used to say. You’re not usually early.’
‘It’s hardly early,’ I snap. ‘And it’s not like I’m always late, not all the time anyway. And just because someone behaves one way for a long time, doesn’t mean that that’s how it’s gonna be for ever, you know.’ Greg withdraws his hands and opens his mouth but doesn’t speak. He takes a step back and gestures towards the door, like a butler. I feel a prick of anxiety that I have treated Greg – who is always on time, always helpful, possibly (very sadly) the most reliable thing in my life – in such a derisory way, but I also feel completely justified. As a woman, as a mother, I’m expected to be soft and nurturing and agreeable all the time. Not any more.
I sit down at my desk. I’ve never been here with time to spare before and I feel a bit at a loss. I straighten up the stationery and give the grooves of my keyboard a quick excavation with the tip of a pen; as I’m doing so a mug slides into my peripheral vision. I look up and see Greg with a drink of his own and, even though I still feel a bi
t indignant, I offer him a closed-mouth smile. It’s not just Greg I’m angry with; it’s all men, every one that gets to wander about the earth basking in his own privilege, but especially Alexander. I want to know that he’s as agitated by the thought of seeing me as I am of seeing him. I want to know that he is affected by me and not just inconvenienced. I deserve that.
On the inside of my handbag is a small pocket. I’ve never been clear what it’s for. It’s too small for my phone and until recently had served as a stray-gum-and-pennies receptacle. However, now it holds The List. I pull my bag up from its home next to my feet and smooth the list out on the desk in front of me. As I read I pause at ‘long conversations’.
I think I’ve avoided looking at the fact that these guidelines, as well as being a representation of what I need, are a reminder of a lot of the things I didn’t have. Alexander has always been conservative with his words. One day I told him about an article I had read which reported that the average woman says three times more than the average man on any given day, and he responded, ‘OK.’
When I first knew him, I was naive enough to think this trait made him enigmatic and that his silence – as counterintuitive as this may seem – was because he was more thoughtful than most. Once, not long after we had met but before we were a couple, I told Cara that we had an understanding that was unspoken. We were at a gig, so I had to shout a little. I told her that so much of what was said between us was in gestures and mirroring and just a connection that wasn’t entirely understandable. Cara’s face bunched up. I remember thinking she hadn’t heard me and was going to ask me to repeat myself, so I leaned in and as I did laughter exploded out of her like a misfiring machine gun. The people around us started to stare and I pulled her towards the side of the room to minimize my embarrassment. Even with my hand vice-like on her arm, she maintained a steady stream of mirth. Once at the side of the room, she managed to regain control of herself. She pushed her hair from her face and met my eyes. I looked at her steadily. I wanted her to know it hadn’t been a joke, that just because she hadn’t experienced it with anyone, it did not mean it wasn’t real for me. She wiped a couple of stray tears from her eyes and patted me on the shoulder gently, like she was offering sympathy to a recently fired colleague. I never really forgave her for that but she was probably right; perhaps Alexander didn’t share his thoughts with me because he had nothing to share, or worse, nothing he wanted me to hear. I won’t make that mistake again.
The Reinvention of Martha Ross Page 12