One Day, Someday

by Lynne Barrett-Lee

  Then she dips to put a kiss on the top of Angharad’s head, nods at me briefly and is off up the road.

  ‘So what did you get?’

  Del plops herself down beside me at her kitchen table. I can spy a pile of paint-colour cards on the dresser, but the promise of a little light marital discord has diverted her from her Roomaround fixation.

  ‘Barbie’s Bejewelled Mystical Castle, Barbie’s Bike, Barbie’s Body Painting Kit, Happening Hair Barbie and Barbie’s Four By Four-cum-Surfing Dude’s Beach Buggy. Or something. Oh, and Daisy the Horse That Really Eats.’

  ‘Is that what girls go for these days, then?’

  ‘How should I know? I don’t do girls, do I? I only know that there wasn’t much change out of three hundred pounds.’

  ‘What’s new? Pretty much anything desirable toy-wise these days costs three hundred pounds.’ She ticks them on her fingers. ‘Playstation Two, DVD player, stunt bike. So, did you make it?’

  ‘Barely.’ I outlined the Poke-fest details. ‘And, of course, we had to stop on the way so I could wrap them all up for him.’

  ‘Poor love.’

  ‘Poor love nothing, Del! Look at the time! And I haven’t even been to Sainsbury’s yet! I mean, how could he? How could he forget his own daughter’s birthday? It’s not like he’s got dozens of them or anything.’ Though who knows? He might well have. ‘Poor thing. She must have known something was up - her mother certainly did - and even if she didn’t it’s a pretty poor show.’

  ‘Ah! You met the redoubtable Rhiannon, then?’

  ‘Briefly. They were already there when we pulled up. Joe made out it was my fault, of course, which I thought was pretty bloody cheeky. That he’d given them to me yesterday and that I’d left them in the office. The nerve of the man! I ended up going along with it, of course. How could I not? The poor little girl must have felt like she was in the middle of Beirut. But she’s not stupid. And neither is his ex-wife. She knew very well.’

  ‘And probably enjoyed it.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it. There doesn’t seem to be much love lost between them. And I’m not in the least surprised. It’s amazing, isn’t it? I mean he manages to go into Toys’R’Us this very morning and get a teddy bear for Lily’s baby - a pink one, mind you, even though it’s a boy - and to whiz some flowers round to some woman or other, yet he completely fails to remember his own daughter’s birthday. It’s a bit sad, isn’t it?’

  ‘Sounds fairly typical to me.’

  ‘Hmmmph. I don’t doubt that either.’

  ‘No, darling. Not of Joe particularly. Of men. Period. You do have ridiculously high expectations of them, Lu. It’s no wonder you’ve always had such a job finding one.’

  Oh, but Del is so, so wrong. When Leo and I get home there is a bunch of flowers propped against the front door. Makes the place look a little like someone was killed there recently and, admittedly, they are a little limp and listless, but they are for me. And they are from Stefan. Five stems of iris in the most exquisite shade of blue. And there’s a message, scribbled on the flower shop paper. It reads: ‘Off up a mountain - sorry to have missed you. Saturday can’t come too soon! S XX.’

  ‘Yukky yukky yuk yuk!’ says Leo, reading it out to me. ‘Spew-ee! Is this the man who came round on that sad bike last night?’

  ‘Leo!’ I chide, plucking the flowers from his fingers. ‘Don’t be so rude. They’re lovely!’

  He follows me into the hall and dumps his bag at the foot of the stairs. ‘They’re nearly dead. And they smell.’

  ‘They smell lovely,’ I trill, shoving my face in them enthusiastically. Oh, I’m so cheered up. ‘Anyway, that’s not the point, Leo. It’s the thought that counts.’

  He pulls a face as he takes off his jacket. ‘Well he can’t think much of you, then, can he?’

  ‘Oh, ha ha.’

  ‘Are you in love with him, Mum?’

  I pause. My little boy is suddenly braced for my answer, and I find myself wondering quite why it is that it hasn’t yet occurred to me that he might even care.

  I’m all out of practice with this stuff. So’s he. I ruffle his hair and poke him playfully. ‘Goodness me, no!’ I say lightly. ‘He’s just a good friend, Leo. Someone a bit special. But no love stuff, OK?’

  He grins his little grin, and looks again at the flowers. ‘Yeah, right, Mum,’ he says. ‘Just checking.’

  6

  Friday 27 April

  It was raining this morning, so the journey to work added a whole new dimension to the Greek tragedy that was beginning to constitute my relationship with the terrifying car. As with everything else that sprouted from its preposterous dashboard, there seemed to be no end to the options available to the knob-wise driver with a dirty windscreen on their minds. Had it actually been raining with any degree of effort it would have been simple. I had already spent much of the preceding two days getting to know my speedwipe facility: it came into play every time I tried to use the indicators. Today’s conditions, however, were falling over themselves to be as difficult and obstreperous as possible. There was just enough wet stuff coming out of the sky to ensure that all the filthy stuff that was lying in the road was liquidized, emulsified, and rerouted to my windscreen, where my speedwipe facility smeared it obligingly around. And I could not seem to find out where the wash-wipe knob was.

  But it was, at least, a learning experience. By the time I reached Joe’s house, I had not only established the whereabouts of most of the vast range of wet-weather facilities on offer, but had also discovered that at a constant 42.7 miles per hour I had sufficient fuel on board to make a bolt for Swansea instead.

  ‘Hrrmmmph. So, what’s all this arts and crafts stuff about, then?’

  It’s a little after eleven and we are now on our way to Joe’s real appointment at the hospital. Such a strange way to be spending the day. Drive to work, start work, stop work, drive somewhere else, hang around, drive back to the office, start work again, stop it again - it’s like I can never get to grips with anything useful. Arts and crafts, indeed. This, I assume, is his attempt at chirpy, conciliatory conversation, in the aftermath of our terse exchange earlier about whether ex-wifely placation was really part of my job spec. I negotiate the junction before answering, levelly, ‘It’s not arts and crafts. It’s just art. What about it?’

  He reaches out his right arm and makes a grab for the door handle as I turn the next corner. Which, given why the other arm is in a foot and a half of plaster, is just so bloody rich.

  ‘Nothing. I just wondered what it was all about. You know. The night school. The college stuff.’

  I am not altogether sure I like the direction in which this conversation is going, and it hasn’t even really got going yet. Stuff, indeed.

  ‘What, my degree, you mean?’

  He raises an eyebrow. ‘Is that what you’re doing, then?’

  ‘No. Not at the moment. Obviously. I’m hoping to start an access course in October.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why October?’

  ‘No. Why an access course?’

  ‘Because I have to complete one - put together a portfolio - before they’ll accept me for a degree.’

  ‘Hmmph,’ he said. ‘Sounds rather peculiar. Anyway, why the degree?’

  God! Why do people always ask that? Why does it strike people as being such an oddity? You have sixth-formers signing up for master of bloody arts in how to make things out of egg boxes and I get all this grief! We wait at the pedestrian lights for some seconds during which I think grouchy thoughts and a lady with a tartan shopping trolley makes her tortuous way through the by now sheeting (and finally speed-wipeable) grey rain.

  ‘Because I wanted to,’ I say, finally. ‘I’ve always wanted to study art. I want …’ To-be-an-artist. Oh, come on.

  But I don’t have to add anything anyway because he says, ‘Yes, I realize that. But to what end?’

  ‘Does there have to be an end?’

  ‘Well, a point, at least
. What’s yours? Can’t you just paint in your spare time?’

  He sounds so reasonable and unruffled that I just know he finds the idea deeply, deeply irritating. I am, I realize, learning fast where he’s concerned.

  ‘Because,’ I say, patiently, ‘I would like to spend three years of my life doing something simply because it is what I want to do. So that is what I’m going to do. Do you have a problem with that?’

  ‘Not in the least,’ he replies mildly. ‘It just seems a rather strange thing for someone your age to be doing.’

  ‘I don’t see what age has to do with it.’

  He ignores this, and grunts as he reaches to flip down the indicator for me. I am going to have to say something about this. I am.

  I do.

  ‘Look, this is a dedicated left-turn lane. See? It is therefore not necessary for me to—’

  ‘That’s not the point. It’s sloppy driving. Always indicate your intention.’

  ‘My intention is perfectly obvious.’

  ‘Not necessarily. You—’

  ‘I am turning left at a left-hand filter. And,’ I check, ‘there is no one behind me.’

  ‘That’s not the point.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake!’

  He hrruumphs again. ‘So what’s the night school all about, then?’

  I turn left. ‘Exactly that. Night school.’

  ‘Learning what?’

  ‘About art.’

  The indicator stalk flips back. He glances at it. ‘But this isn’t part of your access course, right?’

  ‘No. It’s an interim thing. A one-year course on the impressionists. I’m just doing it as background before I start the access course.’

  ‘A sort of pre-pre-course course, then. Uh-huh.’

  Put like that, it does sound faintly ludicrous. Bah!

  ‘Uh-huh what?’ I snap. ‘What exactly is wrong with that? Besides, I don’t have to do it. I’m just doing it because—’

  ‘I know. Because you want to.’ We join the queue for the multi-storey car-park. The space between the ticket machines looks ridiculously small.

  ‘Uh-huh,’ he says, again, nodding.

  I turn. ‘Uh-bloody-huh what now?’

  He shrugs his shoulders. ‘Nice life. That’s all.’

  Because there is really nothing useful I can do while Joe is seeing the consultant, bar driving back into town and reversing into the hateful parking space just in time to have to drive straight back out of it again, I have nothing to occupy me for the next hour or so, apart from being very cross about being told what a nice life I have. (Hey, yeah, right.) Or hanging around the newly refurbished hospital village area catching up with what’s hot in the League of Friends shop. Or eating an Eccles cake. Or getting embroiled in a conversation about the female preoccupation with self-justification and its role in the continued repression of women and so on with a complete stranger. Who will doubtless have some grisly communicable disease. But waiting is obviously going to be a feature of my life for the next few weeks so I must remember to plan for it. Next time I will bring a banana, a novel, a sketchpad and pencils, and make like the self-absorbed arty-farty prima-donna he’s obviously decided I am.

  ‘Jesus, this hospital’s like a bloody Bulgarian airport,’ Joe observes.

  Here, I assume he speaks from experience. I know from the paperwork that JDL boilers have infiltrated much of the eastern bloc.

  ‘I would have thought someone in your position would have private medical insurance,’ I say, a touch tartly, as I scuttle behind him through the shifting throng.

  He shoots me a look. ‘Oh, I do. But regrettably the bloody king’s ransom I pay for it doesn’t stretch sufficiently to equip the private hospital with anything as wildly extravagant as an MRI scanner on site when you want one. Theirs is apparently “on tour” at the moment. Abergavenny or somewhere.’

  He returns an hour and a half later with a large buff envelope, which I assume holds his scan. He flaps it at me. ‘Come on, then. Get up. Let’s get going,’ he orders. I dutifully gather up my bag and magazine. Then leave the latter behind. There is nothing in Red that the likes of me can afford, and the recipes all involve the sort of ingredients you have to live near Harrods to get.

  ‘So, what’s the verdict?’ I ask him.

  ‘Don’t ask.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Grrr.’

  ‘Something bad?’

  ‘Bloody typical.’ He starts striding towards the exit. People, I notice, step aside as he passes. It might be the scar but I suspect they’d do it anyway. ‘They’re not sure the bone is setting properly,’ he expands. ‘And there’s a bit of debris floating around in my elbow that they’re worried about.’

  ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘Quite. They’re going to give it another week then do another scan. If there’s no improvement I’m going to have to come in and have an operation to fix it. And there won’t be any improvement, of course, because it’s always Sod’s bloody Law where I’m concerned and I’m sure this will be no different. And I’ve got to come in again on Tuesday to have these bloody stitches out. At eleven bloody thirty again. As if I’ve nothing better to do. What a bloody shambles. What a bloody - this way?’

  I almost feel sorry for him. Almost, but not quite. ‘No. That’s Maternity.’ I point out the car-park. ‘Oh dear,’ I say again. ‘Presumably that will mean you’ll be in plaster for longer than you thought.’

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘Stop saying “oh dear”, will you?’

  He’s walking at such speed that I have to make little skipping movements to keep up with him.

  ‘Sorry. I only—’

  ‘Well, do me a favour, will you, Lu? Don’t.’

  ‘Well,’ says Iona, when we return to the office - and presumably having read my scowl as a look of anxious concern. ‘That’s a bit of a blow, isn’t it? But never mind, dear, we’ll look after you, won’t we, Lu?’ Will we? ‘By the way, Joe, the police called earlier. You have to phone them back as soon as possible apparently. A very nice chap. A Constable Evans. Here’s his number.’ She hands him a small piece of paper.

  Which he takes. ‘Nice bloody nothing,’ he growls.

  The car situation is beginning to look grave. Grave as in that looks like where my precious MG is headed, and grave as in if the woman in the Mondeo has made a statement to the effect that Joe was definitely speeding and that neither car would have been involved in the accident had he not been, the police might take the view that he bears some responsibility. Hmmm.

  Not that it makes any difference to me. I had one MG. I will have another MG. The only factor of any consequence here is who precisely is going to be paying for it, the guy with the artic or Joe’s unfortunate insurers.

  ‘Oh, no. Not mine,’ he explains, as we head back out of the office to the Royal Hotel, which is just round the corner, and where we are to meet with three visiting Luxotel men. ‘In theory, it should be completely straightforward. The driver of the artic was the one who caused the accident so, according to this Evans chap, his insurers should be the ones to cough up.’

  I hitch up my skirt a touch, as it is straight and tight, and has not been designed to accommodate the four-foot stride span that is my only recourse if I want to keep up with him without looking like a stressed geisha. ‘But supposing the police agree with the woman in the Mondeo that the damage to your car - my car - was partly your fault?’

  He stabs at the button at the traffic lights. Twice. ‘They won’t.’

  ‘But what if they do it.’

  And a third time. ‘Then the insurers on the artic won’t pay out.’ He is speaking, for some reason, in an exasperated tone, as if in response to the questioning of a small, irritating child.

  ‘Anyway,’ I press on, ‘it shouldn’t make any difference in any case, should it? Because you’re covered anyway. I mean, you’d lose your no-claims bonus, of course, but I presume you’ve got one of those policies tha
t—’

  ‘Hmm,’ he says, nudging me out on to the crossing. The road is clear our way but the little man is still red. ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘Why not? You’ve got fully comprehensive insurance, haven’t you? You said you had.’ I look at him pointedly. ‘You told me you had.’

  We fetch up at the centre island and he incorporates a nod into the wave-and-scowl-based traffic-management routine that he clearly favours, and which has been successful in arresting the progress of an oncoming van - if not the progress of the driver’s two fingers, which are rammed up against his windscreen. ‘I do,’ he confirms. ‘Except when - well, except when I’m driving someone else’s car, apparently.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That’s what I said. But it seems I was only covered third party. You only have comprehensive cover if you’re on the owner’s policy as a named driver.’

  I experience a chilling moment of total recall at this point. ‘Which you weren’t. Which you weren’t because you told me you didn’t need to be. Because you told me that you were insured to drive anything! And you weren’t! And—’

  ‘Tsk! Watch that cyclist, Lu, will you?’

  I swerve and hobble up on to the opposite pavement. ‘Pah! I knew I shouldn’t have listened to you! I knew it! One phone call! One phone call and all this would have been sorted out. One phone call and it would have been fine! Instead of which, now you don’t even know if you’re covered at all! God, I can’t believe I let you borrow it. I cannot believe I’ve been so stupid!’

  ‘Look, it’s not a problem, OK? You will get your car back - well, another one just like it, though why you’d want another one just like it is quite beyond me - but, anyway, like I said, it’s not a problem.’

  ‘Not a problem? Not a problem? You’re just going to walk into a showroom and buy me a new one, are you?’

  He trawls a hand through his hair and steers me through the troughs of mixed bedding that ring the Royal’s car-park. ‘If needs be. Yes. Of course I will.’

  ‘But even so—’

  He holds the lobby door open for me. ‘But even so nothing. You’ll get your car, Lu. OK?’

  Oh, I see.