The Mum Who'd Had Enough

by Fiona Gibson

  I tried to explain this to Nate, but he brushed me off, implying that I was being silly and even hysterical. Eventually I stopped talking about it as it just seemed to cause rows. Meanwhile, we threw everything into being Flynn’s parents. He was our little hero, and our entire life, and when one aspect of life is all-consuming, other things tend to be forgotten. Like paying parking fines on time and sending Nate’s mother a birthday present (somehow, since I’d let my business slide, attending to such matters had become my job). We forgot about wedding anniversaries, and rarely had nights out, despite numerous offers of babysitting. For the most part, we even forgot about having sex. Let’s just say our cars had oil changes more regularly than Nate and I were getting it together. And somewhere along the way, we lost ourselves.

  For a while, I assumed the real problem was money, and it was certainly tight. I knew this was partially my fault. All through Flynn’s primary school years I was a non-working person, which sometimes seemed to tip into being a non-person. But I accepted that, because Flynn was surpassing all expectations and growing up into the sunniest, most determined and delightful boy. CP was just a part of him, like his love of dogs and fascination with his dad’s vast record collection.

  By the time Flynn was twelve I had an overwhelming urge to return to work. Jewellery was far too precarious an option, and by then I was lamentably out of touch with trends and potential retail outlets. Plus, as Nate often pointed out – quite rightly – our debts were mounting and we needed another regular income. Pre-parenthood he’d scraped a living through teaching guitar, playing in bands and driving musicians, plus their gear, the length and breadth of Britain. He’d enjoyed the driving part so much, he’d eventually trained as a driving instructor, and then the examiner he is now.

  Reliable, hard-grafting Nate: willing to swap his life in music for one of tests and minutiae, because he loves us and wanted to take care of us. Meanwhile, I took on some part-time admin work, until last year, when a card in a local shop window caught my eye: Full-time sales assistant required. Please enquire within.

  ‘Would it seem ridiculous,’ I asked Nate, ‘for me to apply for a shop job?’

  ‘What kind of shop?’ He started to rearrange the contents of our dishwasher, as he always reckons I stack it incorrectly.

  ‘A new gift shop called Little Owl. It’s by that bistro in Stoker Road. You probably haven’t noticed it …’

  There was a clink of crockery as he repositioned the top shelf’s contents to ensure effective cleansing. As my friend Michelle once put it, ‘A man who criticises your dishwasher-loading technique risks being shoved into it with the intensive setting whacked on.’

  ‘So, what d’you think?’ I prompted him.

  He removed the forks from the appliance’s holder and put them back properly, with prongs facing upwards.

  I jammed my back teeth together. People have committed murder over less. ‘Nate? Did you actually hear what I said?’

  ‘Yeah, sorry, darling.’ He turned and smiled. ‘Yeah. I think a little shop job would be really good for you.’

  Little shop job!

  I was replaying all of this as I scribbled that list two nights ago. I hardly knew what I was doing as I placed it by the kettle, then called Abby in a state. Of course I could stay with her, she assured me. She would come and get me, and would I please stop apologising? She met me in her car at 1.40 a.m. at the end of our road.

  So here I am now – trying, unsuccessfully, to sleep in her spare room. The plump pillow is wet with my tears, and although somehow it’s better than being with Nate, I can’t help thinking: What the hell have I done?

  Chapter Seven

  Nate

  Weekends are usually an opportunity to kick back, read the papers, walk Scout, maybe meet up with Eric and Sarah. Or Sinead and I would just go out for a drink ourselves: all the ordinary (but now, I realise, intensely pleasurable) stuff I’ve taken for granted all these years. Without Sinead here on Saturday morning – and with no work to go to – I simply don’t know what to do with myself.

  Still, I can’t fall apart. I’m still Flynn’s dad and, if nothing else, I’m going to prove that I can run this home, this family, by myself.

  Things start off pretty well, considering. Flynn emerges from his room a little before 10 a.m. There are no visible signs of tears or anger; on the contrary, he utters a gruff, ‘Morning’ as we pass on the stairs. I even dish up a proper breakfast – not that I’m expecting some kind of World’s Best Dad accolade for scrambling some eggs. However, we are coping, in that we are dressed, and nourished, and I have only checked my phone a handful of times to see if Sinead has been trying to contact me.

  Of course she hasn’t. Idiot, I chastise myself.

  Aware of behaving a little manically – in order to prove just how fucking fine I am – I suggest to Flynn that he fetches his guitar and we have a go at some new techniques. ‘Okay,’ he says warily. Minutes later, we’re sitting together in the living room while I show him a new take on the traditional twelve-bar blues he knows already.

  He’s strumming away, albeit rather mechanically, as if he’s keen to get on with something else.

  ‘Hang on,’ I say, motioning him to stop. ‘It’d be good to change your emphasis, give it some whack on the second and fourth beat …’

  ‘What?’ he asks crossly, brow furrowing.

  ‘Let me show you.’ On my own guitar, I start to play a riff, aware of Flynn’s gradually flattening expression, his mouth setting in a firm line. I stop and look at him. ‘That was Chuck Berry. You can hear how he played about with the timing, the emphasis – that’s what gave him that unique sound—’

  ‘Dad,’ Flynn interrupts, placing his own guitar carefully on the sofa beside him.

  ‘Hang on, Flynn …’ I start playing some more. It’s helping a little, focusing on the music. Helping me to not fixate on Sinead, just for a few moments …

  ‘Dad!’ he barks. I stop, taken aback by his abruptness. ‘Look, um …’ He shuffles uneasily. ‘D’you mind if we don’t do this?’

  I look at him. ‘You mean, try out this Chuck Berry riff?’

  Flynn’s eyes seem to harden. ‘Well, yeah. I mean, why would I want to play like Chuck Berry?’

  ‘Because he’s one of the greats,’ I reply with a frown. ‘A big influence on Springsteen, actually. He even covered some of his songs. Hang on a sec …’ I place my guitar to one side, and get up with the intention of fetching my laptop.

  ‘Dad, please,’ Flynn cries after me. ‘No YouTube clips of old dead guys!’

  I swing round to face him. ‘He not just any old dead guy. He was a major innovator—’

  ‘Yeah, I know who he is. I mean, was. Max’s dad’s got a record of his, that awful song … what’s it called again?’

  I shrug, genuinely confused.

  Flynn smirks. ‘I remember. “My Ding-a-Ling” …’

  ‘Oh, that,’ I retort. ‘That was just a stupid comedy record—’

  ‘Yeah, about his dick—’

  ‘Flynn!’

  My son’s gaze meets mine, challenging me. Was he ever so belligerent when Sinead was here? I’m sure there were occasions, but I can’t recall any right now.

  ‘What’s up with saying “dick”?’ he asks, clearly pushing boundaries.

  ‘Nothing, I suppose,’ I mutter. ‘But it’s a bit unnecessary. Okay, shall we try that Stones riff instead—’

  ‘Well, that’s what the song’s about, isn’t it?’ he rants on. ‘Max’s dad was playing it when he was drunk one night. He was a pervert. He put spy cameras in women’s loos—’

  ‘Max’s dad?’ I exclaim.

  ‘No, Chuck-fucking-Berry!’

  ‘Okay, okay,’ I exclaim, deciding not to tick him off about unnecessary language on this occasion, although it’s definitely out of order, coming straight after ‘dick’ a few seconds ago. I have a swearing limit and he’s definitely topped it. However, things are heated enough as it is. Pick your battle
s, I’ve always believed, and I know everyone swears these days. The c-word seems to be as commonly used as ‘hello’ or, ‘how are you?’, not that I’m a fan of it being tossed about like confetti. But I try to be easy-going and liberal, often thinking, Christ – hasn’t my son had enough to deal with in life without me lambasting him over trivialities?

  ‘C’mon,’ I add, ‘we can play something else. This is supposed to be fun, not an ordeal for you.’ He wrinkles his nose at me, as if I have suggested a game of Ludo. ‘How about trying that finger picking again?’ I soldier on. ‘You were doing really well with that …’ He was too, by which I mean no onlooker would even guess he had any issues with his fine motor movements.

  Flynn gets up and grabs his guitar by the neck, and for one split-second I wonder if he is going to bash me on the head with it. ‘Look, Dad, what I’m trying to tell you is – if you’d listen – I don’t want to do this anymore.’

  You don’t listen to me. Will I soon be presented with a list of my faults from my son, too? Well, why not? Might as well make it a family game.

  ‘What are you saying?’ I ask hollowly. ‘You can’t just give up, Flynn. You’re so good!’

  ‘No, I mean—’

  ‘I know it gets frustrating,’ I barge in, ‘and you can feel like you’re not making much progress. But honestly, you have real talent—’

  ‘Dad,’ he says firmly, shaking his head, ‘what I mean is, I want to stop playing guitar with you.’

  I blink at Flynn. Something cold and hard seems to clamp itself around my heart. He stands there, glaring at me in disdain, as if he can hardly believe I was fifty per cent responsible for his existence. He is gripping his favourite instrument, the one that cost us a fortune for his fifteenth birthday, after I’d managed to persuade Sinead that it really was the best choice for him. But he only tried it out for ten minutes, she hissed, as the three of us left the music store in Leeds.

  Sometimes, I told her, it’s instant. You just know.

  Love at first sight? she said with a laugh.

  I clear my throat and try to pull myself together. ‘So, you, uh, don’t want me to teach you anymore?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he says, with a tone that borders on the callous. ‘I mean, no. No, I don’t. Is that all right, Dad?’

  ‘Er, yes, of course it is,’ I reply, ‘if that’s what you’ve decided. So, er, d’you want to learn from someone else?’

  ‘No, I just want to play,’ Flynn says emphatically. ‘I just want to do my own thing with Max, Luke and Si and the others, know what I mean?’

  ‘But you do your own thing now … ’

  Flynn’s nostrils seem to flare. ‘Yeah, but that’s all I want to do. I don’t want to sit here, learning your things …’

  ‘They’re not my things!’

  ‘Dad, you know what I mean. It’s not a big deal, is it? C’mon.’ He hoists a small smile, as if I am a child whose balloon has just slipped from his hand and floated away. Then he shrugs and saunters off to his room.

  I know I should leave it at that. I should accept that, at sixteen years old – with his mother recently departed from our home – he is fully entitled to continue to progress, or not progress, however he pleases. He can never learn another damn thing, if that’s what he wants! But instead, I follow him upstairs and loom in his bedroom doorway.

  ‘What is it?’ he asks.

  I clear my parched throat. ‘So, er, you really don’t want me to teach you anymore? Is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘Yeah. I explained that already, Dad.’

  I shrug, feeling ridiculous. ‘But I mean … isn’t it quite handy that I’m here, and available, and we can just do stuff whenever you’re in the mood?’ And I can adapt techniques according to your abilities? I want to add, but of course, I don’t.

  ‘I don’t really want to anymore.’

  ‘But why not? I thought you enjoyed it. I thought, you know, it was our thing …’ My voice wavers. Oh, God. How needy do I sound now?

  ‘Just leave it, would you?’ Flynn mumbles, picking at his fingernails.

  And then I must really lose it, as I snap at my beloved boy: ‘Suit your bloody self then. But don’t come running to me when you can’t figure out a G minor seventh!’

  What a jerk.

  Only a prize arsehole would flounce downstairs like a twelve-year-old, summon Scout and Bella for a walk, and march furiously down the street. The sky is drab grey, the colour of a white T-shirt that’s been washed with the darks. The dogs plod along at my side, seemingly picking up on my gloom. There’s no excitable pulling on the leads, no reaction whatsoever when a scrawny black cat crosses our path. On a positive note, there’s no sighting of our neighbour Howard with Monty either.

  My phone rings, and I snatch it from my jacket pocket, willing it to be Sinead, or even Flynn, apologising – but it’s only my mate Paolo. He lives just outside town, and is happily married to Bea, with three impossibly cute children. He leaves a voicemail message, which I don’t play. I can’t face telling him what’s happened just yet.

  Back home, I apologise to Flynn through his closed bedroom door.

  ‘S’all right,’ he growls. Instead of pestering him any further, I head downstairs and deal with the dishes I dumped in the sink last night – not because I’m some hapless male, unfamiliar with domestic cleansing rituals, but because I couldn’t even face stacking the dishwasher after Sinead had been here and delivered her speech. And now, as I sweep the kitchen floor unnecessarily, I am aware of being poised for a call, or the sound of her coming home; I don’t think the enormity of what’s happened has truly sunk in yet. I can only liken it to when Dad died. He and his friend, Nick, would often sit together, drinking tea and chatting, on the peeling bench in front of Dad’s rented cottage. It was Nick who found Dad; he’d died of a heart attack while gardening. The reality only really hit me when I cleared out his shed.

  By the time lunchtime rolls around, I busy myself by making some hearty lentil soup. Never mind that Flynn only manages half a bowlful. So chuffed am I that it’s a) edible and b) ‘balanced’ (unlike its creator right now), I call Sinead to tell her all about it.

  ‘Look, Nate,’ she says as I pause for breath, ‘d’you mind if we leave any contact for a few days?’

  ‘Er, no, of course not,’ I say, clearing my throat. ‘Whatever feels best for you, I’m happy with …’ Happy! Now there’s an interesting choice of word.

  ‘I really need some time to get my head around things. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Yes, I understand that …’

  ‘Are you all right?’ she asks, rather belatedly.

  ‘Getting there,’ I fib, in a silly jovial tone as I tip the remains of Flynn’s soup down the sink.

  ‘I spoke to Flynn this morning,’ she adds. ‘He seems okay, I think … don’t you?’

  Oh, right, so they’ve been having cosy chats without my knowledge? ‘Yes, I suppose so,’ I croak.

  ‘I’m relieved about that.’

  ‘Mmm, me too.’

  ‘Bye then, Nate. I’d better go. Abby’s just made us some lunch …’

  ‘Great. Bye, love.’ I sense the backs of my eyeballs tingling alarmingly as we finish the call.

  Once I’ve cleared up our lunch stuff, I find myself wondering what to do next that doesn’t involve standing in the kitchen, staring into a vat of soup on the hob. So this is what the weekends will feel like now: endless, stretching to infinity.

  I walk the dogs again, trudging from street to street for a whole two hours, wondering if Scout is exhibiting signs of weight loss from all this exercise, or if Flynn will start to worry that I’ve hurled myself into the canal. Probably not.

  Shortly after I return home, Flynn announces that he’s off to Max’s, and will stay there for dinner. Later, I am spooning in another bowl of soup, without bothering to heat it up, when my phone rings. Paolo again. I let it ring out. Then a text: Answer your phone mate. Saw Sinead in town so I know what’s happened. U okay? Want a p
int?

  Oh Lord, so the news is out there. I try to formulate a reply in my mind, but it’s useless; anything I come up with sounds either overly breezy (‘Don’t worry about me!’), or patently untrue (‘am fine’).

  Twenty minutes later there’s a sharp knock at the front door.

  ‘Hi,’ I say dully as I let Paolo in.

  He blows out air and shakes his head, looking around the hallway as if the decorators have been and made a real arse job of painting. ‘Bloody hell, mate, I am sorry. Some fucking situation this is.’

  I nod and shrug. ‘Yeah. Well, there it is. She’s gone.’

  ‘Jesus.’ He rakes at his hair. ‘How’s Flynn taking it?’

  ‘Better than me, probably, but it’s hard to tell. He’s in his room most of the time, or out. He’s at Max’s right now.’

  We stand and look at each other, clearly unsure of what to say next. Paolo shoves his hands in his pockets and inhales deeply; I wonder now if Bea insisted he came over to check on my mental state. ‘No pub quiz for you tonight then,’ he adds in a lame attempt to lighten the mood.

  ‘Oh, God. I’d forgotten that’s tonight. The final as well …’

  ‘Ah, sod it,’ he says. ‘They’ll have to rope in a couple of substitutes – though God knows they’ll be stuffed without us two. You know what Bazza’s like with his obscure sixties music questions …’

  I raise a smile, wishing Paulo would come to the conclusion that he really should go and leave me alone now.

  ‘So, that rules out the Lamb and Flag for us tonight,’ he continues, while I try to figure out how to break it to him that I’m not really in the mood for going anywhere. ‘We’ll go to the Wheatsheaf instead,’ he adds.

  ‘No thanks,’ I say quickly. ‘It’s great of you to come over – I appreciate that – but, really, I’m not up to—’

  ‘So you’d rather stay here,’ he interrupts, ‘on your own, feeling like shit?’

  Well, yes.

  ‘C’mon, get your jacket,’ Paolo says firmly. ‘We’re going out.’

  Chapter Eight