Truestory

by Catherine Simpson

  ‘Oregano. Basil. Yep, we’ll have these. Onion Salt?’ He shook the jar but the stuff stayed solid. ‘Nah,’ he said, and he put it back. ‘Garlic Salt? You cannae do it without garlic,’ he said, grabbing that one. He had another quick squint round. ‘Okay, these’ll do.’ He dumped them into the veg tray with its onions, tomatoes and odd bulb of garlic then, picking up the tray, he headed back into the kitchen.

  As I followed him out I saw a dusty old pasta packet lurking behind some rusty tins. I grabbed it and hid it behind my back.

  ‘Do you fancy some cheese and onion pie?’ Sam responded with a mutinous stare. ‘I could do it with baked beans . . .’

  There was still no reply so I produced the pasta packet from behind my back.

  ‘Good job I’ve found this then,’ and I waved it above my head like a maraca and sang a couple of bars of Lambada.

  Sam stared at me deadpan. Having pasta for tea was clearly no laughing matter, so I gave up trying to make him smile and put the kettle on.

  Larry grabbed the chopping board. He turned to face Sam and started juggling with three of the onions. It looked tricky and I felt a childish surge of happiness as his hands, barely moving, kept the onions circling in the air. I laughed and wondered – was it possible to watch a juggler without smiling?

  Yes, it was, because Sam was staring at Larry with a face as straight as Duncan’s draining rods, then he swivelled on his seat and very obviously consulted the clock.

  ‘We’d best get on with it,’ said Larry, catching the onions and grinning at me.

  He chopped them while I counted Sam’s pasta pieces into the pot and gave it a stir. It was still only 5.24pm. The pasta was quick-cook so I had time to get it on the table by 5.30. It mattered. I wanted to keep Sam calm and I wanted to make him as happy as I could. It mattered even more to me now I was involved with Larry – as though I could wipe out some of the guilt of deceiving Sam by being a mum who got the pasta on the table dead on half past five. I reached up for his favourite bowl and put it in front of him.

  ‘Anyway, not too much onion,’ said Larry, stirring it. ‘I’m only using one. The others were for showing off my circus skills.’ He looked at me. ‘Not that they did me much good.’

  ‘No. When it’s time to eat, it’s time to eat. Not juggle,’ I said, and I poked him in the ribs. I looked sidelong at Sam – he was still staring at us like a starving cat watching a tin of Whiskas.

  ‘Then when the onion’s soft, add the garlic.’ Larry sliced the garlic and I watched. Larry was good at cooking and I liked watching him doing something he was good at.

  ‘Okay, so we need to liquidise these tomatoes,’ Larry looked at me. ‘If you’ve got a liquidiser.’

  I sort of heard what he said, but I was remembering the sex we’d just had in the pantry. It was distracting. Sex grabbed in the nooks and crannies of life is hard to beat.

  It reminded me of when me and Duncan were teenagers and had sex all over the place, trying to avoid his parents: in the barn, in the car, once against the door of the outside loo. We’d had to be quite inventive – back then I lived with my mother and it was hopeless, there was no privacy or opportunity there, it was tiny and my mother hardly went out. She spent her life watching telly, waiting for my stepdad to come home so she could dance attendance on him. I bet they never had stand-up sex in the pantry.

  Larry was looking at me.

  ‘What?’ I said.

  ‘A liquidiser?’

  ‘Oh yes, sorry.’ I pointed under the sink. ‘I was a bit distracted.’

  I drained Sam’s pasta and dumped it back in the pan, before slapping on a big dollop of butter.

  ‘Okay, there we are,’ I glanced at the clock as I emptied the pan into his bowl, ‘dead on time.’

  Sam looked back at the clock.

  ‘It is five thirty-three – ’

  ‘Clock’s fast,’ I said. ‘Now eat it before it goes cold.’

  The sauce was made and needed to simmer but we stayed by the cooker stirring it and tasting it. Larry put his hand over mine on the wooden spoon and said: ‘No, that’s not how you stir it. It’s like this,’ and he stirred it the other way, as though there was a science to it. I burst out laughing.

  ‘So that’s where I’ve been going wrong.’

  ‘And now for your next lesson you’re going to learn to juggle.’

  Grabbing three onions out of the tray he stood behind me with his arms either side of me and juggled so I could watch the action of his hands. Then he threw one onion back in the tray.

  ‘You’re going to start with two. Okay, throw from left hand to right and just before it gets there throw the one in your right to your left.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘You’re a talented woman, aren’t you?’

  Sam was watching and looking interested; he could relax now his stomach was full.

  ‘But I haven’t got a clue.’

  ‘Like I said; throw the one in your left hand and before it arrives throw the one in your right.

  ‘Well that sounds easy but – ’

  I tried and the onions shot in different directions.

  ‘It’s impossible!’

  It cannot be impossible,’ Sam said. ‘Larry just did it.’

  ‘True, son. Very, very true!’ Larry gathered the onions and put his arms around me again and demonstrated in front of my face.

  ‘I bet I can do it with my eyes shut,’ he said.

  He started but one of the onions caught my nose. I brought my hands up to my face and accidentally knocked the onions all over the kitchen, leaving Larry momentarily juggling with thin air.

  We both laughed and then realised Sam was giggling. This was a rare sound, a rare and wonderful sound. It was remarkable enough getting a smile from Sam.

  We watched him as he rocked back on his chair laughing a big belly laugh at the sight of his mother getting hit on the nose by an onion and Larry juggling with thin air. His laugh was infectious and within seconds Larry and I were laughing too and the more we laughed the more Sam laughed.

  We were making such a racket we didn’t hear Duncan come in and I wasn’t aware of him until I saw him watching the three of us laughing our heads off all together. I moved away from Larry and felt his hands slide quickly off my hips.

  ‘Larry was teaching me to juggle,’ I said.

  There was silence from the adults and the sound of Sam laughing loud and all alone.

  I felt sorry for Duncan. For a split second I felt really sorry for him because he looked gutted standing there by the kitchen door as we all laughed together.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ he said.

  ‘I was trying to juggle. I wasn’t very good.’

  He nodded and looked from me, to Larry, to Sam and back to me.

  ‘Well, it’s tickled Sam, anyway,’ he said.

  Larry turned to the cooker and stirred his sauce.

  ‘Do it again,’ said Sam. ‘Juggling with nothing. Do it again.’

  I unfroze: ‘No, not now. We’ve got to get Dad’s tea sorted.’

  ‘I haven’t finished,’ said Duncan. ‘I came in to ask Larry to give me a hand with the calves. There are a quite a few need feeding.’ Duncan stared at Larry. ‘If you’re not too busy.’

  ‘No bother,’ said Larry heading for the door. ‘I’ll be right there.’

  Without waiting for Larry to get his boots on, Duncan gave us all one last look and headed outside.

  Chapter 40

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  Re: How can I make my lucky day even luckier?

  Truestory

  Date: 18 June 2014

  Time: 19.00

  Escaping at 9:00hrs means I might miss the world famous pasta sauce Larry has made for tomorrow. It smells funny and I would like to miss it. I looked on-line to see
if it was a true story about Larry’s sauce being world famous but could only find ‘Lonzo Larry’s Soon-to-be-Famous Cooking Sauces’. There was a photograph of Lonzo Larry who was wearing a cowboy hat and sunglasses and he had a white beard. Lonzo Larry was definitely not the Larry who lives here.

  Re: How can I make my lucky day even luckier?

  Truestory

  Date: 18 June 2014

  Time: 19.05

  I feel sick. The smell of Larry’s not world famous pasta sauce has crept under my bedroom door and filled my room. I am breathing through my nose so the smell particles do not get into my mouth.

  U Chat

  Private Message to My Name Is Magic

  18 June 2014 Time: 19.10

  * * *

  Truestory

  Dear My Name is Magic Psychic Dhp, Phrs

  I am 11 years 10 months and 21 days old. I have been alive 4312 days but unfortunately 4312 is not a prime number. If I had been born 15 days earlier or 15 days later I would have been alive for 4297 days or 4327 days tomorrow, both of which are prime numbers and would feel luckier for leaving Backwoods Farm.

  I will leave at the luckiest hour which is 9.00 hours so there are only 13 hours and 45 minutes to wait until I can leave Backwoods Farm and be free for the first time in living memory.

  That is not a true story. I do have a living memory of leaving Backwoods Farm when I was aged four but I was always fastened down in a buggy or a car with my hat pulled over my eyes and most of the time I was screaming so I may have been down Hell Fire Pass and out into The Rest of the World but I have not seen it, or heard it, or felt it. I have never been free in it. Tomorrow I will see it and I will hear it and I will feel it. Tomorrow I will be free in it.

  There are now 13 hours and 40 minutes until I can leave Backwoods Farm.

  Thank you very much

  Truestory

  Chapter 41

  ‘What’s going on?’ Duncan was standing at the bottom of the bed with his arms folded.

  ‘What?’ I hugged my book to my chest. ‘What you on about?’

  I’d come upstairs because I didn’t want to sit downstairs with them both, feeling self-conscious. Dinner had been uncomfortable. We’d made conversation – the usual stuff about the weather and jobs that needed doing and that sort of thing, but it had been stilted. After we’d finished, Larry tried to tempt Duncan to watch telly – some documentary about the SAS – but Duncan didn’t show much interest. I disappeared upstairs with my book. I’d been staring at the same page for the past half hour, unable to concentrate even before Duncan burst in.

  ‘You’re always laughing and giggling with Larry. What’s going on?’ he said.

  ‘Giggling and laughing?’ I said. ‘Just because we were having a joke about the juggling? Don’t be pathetic.’

  My heart was thudding and I could feel my face heating up. I knew it was best to stay on the defensive. Or maybe it wasn’t, maybe it was better to smile and sweet-talk him, charm him a bit. But I didn’t feel like charming him. I felt embarrassed and mad at being put on the spot and at a definite disadvantage lying in bed with nothing on but my knickers and an old T-shirt.

  ‘You watch him all the time. I’ve seen you,’ said Duncan.

  ‘Watch him!? That’s crap! I do not. What do you mean watch him?’ I swept on, not giving him chance to speak. ‘And even if I do watch him it’s because he’s so good with Sam and I can’t believe my eyes. Maybe that’s why I’m watching him. Had you thought of that?’

  I could feel myself blushing hot. I hoped I didn’t watch Larry all the time – or if I did I hoped he hadn’t noticed.

  ‘There’s something different about you and it’s to do with Larry. What’s going on? Has he been trying it on?’

  ‘Trying it on! No, he has not. He’s been looking after our son, telling him stories, buying him maps, taking him exploring – all the things his own dad has never done.’

  ‘That’s not fair. You know I’ve tried my best.’

  ‘No, you haven’t. Not at all.’ I knelt up in bed and pointed my finger at him. ‘You’ve never tried to understand Sam. You blame him for being who he is. Larry doesn’t. Larry likes Sam for who he is. Maybe that’s why I’m different with Larry. Maybe that’s it!’

  ‘So you admit you’re different?’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, it’s Sam who’s different. Haven’t you noticed? He’s daring to spread his wings a bit. Going behind the workshop, investigating the summer house, having a party, lots of stuff – God, he’s even talking about leaving the farm – imagine that! But all you’re interested in is whether there’s something going on with me and Larry.’ I put a stupid voice on, mimicking him: ‘Has Larry been trying it on?’ I slammed my book onto the duvet. ‘Do you realise how pathetic that sounds? Give Sam a break for once and give me a break too.’

  I folded my arms, wishing I had a bra on because my boobs got in the way and spoiled the effect a bit when I couldn’t decide whether they should go above or below my folded arms. I glowered at him, daring him to carry on.

  ‘And I saw you in the back garden.’

  ‘Saw us doing what?’

  ‘Talking and laughing.’

  ‘Oh, call the bloody fun police, why don’t you? God forbid that I, Alice McCabe, prisoner of this parish, should be allowed to laugh and talk with a man.’

  ‘It wasn’t just normal talking.’

  ‘What the hell was it then?’

  ‘You were looking at each other.’

  ‘God, listen to yourself. Just because I’ve been stuck out here looking after Sam for nearly twelve years doesn’t mean I’m not allowed to talk to anyone else.’

  ‘You looked guilty when I saw you. You know you did.’

  ‘Maybe I was looking guilty because I’d nearly knocked down our son when he jumped in front of the car like a lunatic. Maybe I looked guilty because I was taking a few minutes to calm down rather than running around fussing over him. Maybe that was it.’

  I blinked at him. I could feel tears not far away and thought they might be no bad thing. I dropped my gaze and encouraged the tears to come.

  ‘I’m just trying to help Sam,’ I said, ‘like I always am.’ I covered my face with my hands and gave a big sniff. ‘And you go mad because I’m actually daring to laugh.’

  There was a silence. Then Duncan said: ‘I’m not going mad, I’m asking, that’s all. I’m allowed to ask.’

  I heard him walk around the side of the bed and felt his hand on my hair. ‘I do want you to laugh, Alice, I do.’ He stroked my hair; something I don’t remember him ever doing before. ‘I know you’ve been lonely and I know I don’t tell you often enough that you’re doing a good job with Sam.’ I heard him sigh. ‘I can’t manage him like you do. You do a good job. I can’t do it and I don’t know what I’d do without you.’

  I felt my throat constrict; he’d never said anything like that before either.

  ‘I think it’s time Larry moved on, that’s all,’ went on Duncan. ‘He says himself he doesn’t stay places long. We’ll be fine on our own without him – Sam’s growing up a bit, it’s not Larry that’s changing him, it would have happened anyway.’

  ‘That’s not true! Sam’s coming out of his shell and if you’re jealous of Larry because of it then you need to grow up a bit and put Sam first.’

  ‘I just want us to be together again as a family, the three of us,’ he said. I kept my face hidden and did another loud sniff. There was a long pause.

  ‘All right, I’ll leave you in peace,’ he said. ‘Let you get that early night.’ He slowly walked away, pulling the door to behind him.

  I lay down and snuggled under the duvet pulling it right up and wiping my eyes with it. I felt terrible. I didn’t like lying and now I was lying about lying.

  I knew I wouldn’t stop though, however guilty I felt I’d carry on seeing Larry. My head was full of him; every day was full of him and I wanted my life to be full of him. I turned the bedside light off and curled up
tight and gazed blindly into the dark.

  I put a load of toast on the table and huddled behind my laptop.

  ‘What are you up to this morning?’ asked Duncan.

  ‘Sam’s schoolwork.’

  ‘What’s it today then?’

  Duncan hardly ever asked about Sam’s schoolwork; he was making an effort after last night.

  ‘Geography. Maps.’

  ‘You like maps. Don’t you, Sam?’ He smiled at Sam.

  Sam shovelled his Weetabix in and said nothing. He looked distracted – even more so than usual.

  Finding his smile blanked by Sam, Duncan said, ‘Anyway . . .’ He smothered jam on a slice of toast and turned to Larry instead. ‘Forecast’s bad. Wind’s getting up later so I reckon we need to check the fastenings on the tunnel.’

  Larry nodded. ‘Aye, I’ll do it.’

  ‘I’ve got to meet a bloke from the council about some blocked drains down the lane so I won’t be here to give you a hand.’

  ‘No bother. I’ll sort it.’

  Having been accused of looking at Larry too much, I daren’t glance at him and kept my eyes fixed on my computer screen.

  ‘Sam,’ I said, ‘I’ll send you a link about your schoolwork for this morning. Okay?’ He didn’t answer and I looked up. Had he heard? He rose from the table and mooched across the kitchen without acknowledging I’d said a word.

  ‘Sam?’ I said, but without a backward glance he disappeared upstairs.

  Despite having his hearing checked years ago, I still sometimes wondered if he was deaf – but then I knew he wasn’t because when he wanted to, he could hear fine. It made me want to yell in his face ‘CAN YOU HEAR ME?’ It was so frustrating the way he thought answering was not necessary – even when I asked him a direct question.

  Sometimes he did reply and that was worse. When I’d handed him his Weetabix bowl this morning I said – half to myself – ‘Well, I think I’ll have a cup of coffee,’ and really deadpan he said, ‘Why should I care?’ And he wasn’t even joking – he was making an observation and I suppose, in a way, a reasonable one. Why should he care? It was a small thing but it made me feel lonely, really lonely. It was like him saying ‘you’re boring, I’m not interested in what you say or what you do, now leave me alone’. But I knew that was how he was; I couldn’t take it personally or it would break me into little bits.