(She puts the tubes neatly on the table and looks at me with her hands on her hips. She sighs. I sigh too, knowing she is playing a game with me. I spread my arms out as if in amazement at what I am seeing. She does the same.)
One last dig about in her rucksack and we have a pot of glue with a brush on the table along with a small carton of drink and something wrapped in foil, presumably a snack.
Josie had said something about this being her calm time.
Then a drink and a snack. And a nap, but not for too long. More of a snooze while I get on with finishing my diary.
Somehow, I doubt any of this will happen just like that.
I watch as she starts to use various felt-tipped pens to draw a picture on a sheet of paper. I notice she is left-handed, like me. It is hard to tell what the picture is meant to be. But she uses one felt-tipped pen confidently after another, going back and forth between them, until, eventually, it is one big mess of colourful squiggles.
I had, to be frank, lost interest some time ago, and was just sitting thinking about this and that. The garden. The heat. The overflowing bins. The terrible smell of rotting meat. Maggots. You get maggots in this heat. Lots of them. And I don’t have any bleach. But then she stops drawing and holds the picture up to me and smiles. Beams, more like.
Christ, what do you say?
It’s hard to make sense of it. That’s definitely a castle, I think.
And a dragon? With three wings?
I smile at her and she smiles back mischievously. “Very nice,” I say, resisting the urge to ask her what it is or even which way up it is meant to be.
She unscrews the pot of glue. The lid has a big brush attached to it. She dips the brush into the glue and smears a great lumpy glob of it on the paper; it’s meant to be over the castle I think, but it spreads right across the edges.
“Here,” I say, taking the brush from her, “give it to me.” (Otherwise it will be all over everywhere and trodden into the carpet.) She lets go after a moment’s resistance and I push the blob of glue into place on the castle. I smile at her. “Do you want me to put some glue on… the dragon?” I add, pointing to the dragon.
She laughs, and says it’s a dinosaur, and then calls me “silly!”.
If I am honest, I was surprised that the little girl agreed to be looked after by me when Beauty and the Beast went out. I had thought, from what had been said, that it was pretty much the two of them on their own without anyone else.
But the little girl, who I would have expected to have been shy and nervous with what is after all a near stranger, seems remarkably at ease. Self-possessed, even. A less tolerant man than I might even say she is full of herself. Just William’s Violet-Elizabeth Bott.
I put a smear of glue on the dinosaur, not that it looks like any dinosaur I have ever seen. I push the glue out along the edges and make a neat-enough job of it.
She cocks her head to one side and looks at it as if in a thoughtful fashion. I again get the impression that she is much older than she looks and is almost acting the part of a cute child. There is a knowingness about her. I am not sure that I like it. In fact, I don’t think I do.
She reaches for the three tubes of glitter. Although I know what will happen the instant before it does, I am not quick enough to stop her opening the tube of silver glitter and knocking it over the table.
She laughs in delight and claps her hands. “No harm done,” I say, using the side of my smallest finger to gather up and tip the bits into the palm of my left hand.
“On the dinosaur?” I ask and she nods agreement and so I carefully shake the contents of my palm onto her drawing. I use a finger to shape the glitter on the dinosaur itself. To be honest, it’s a mess really. It looks like a halfwit has done it. But she seems to like it and it keeps her quiet, which is good. I rather think she could be a noisy little so-and-so if I set her off.
Again, before I can stop her, she enthusiastically pulls the lid off the tube of red glitter and shakes it everywhere, literally everywhere, while making a stupid and irritating ‘err, err’ noise. The glitter is on the drawing, the table and the carpet. I am sure there is, err, err, something wrong with her.
Masking my (natural) irritation, I say “There, there, never mind” as if she might be upset by losing half of the glitter, but, glancing into her wide, vacuous face, she just seems to think it is the funniest thing ever.
I manage to get most of it back into the tube and give it to her, putting my hand over hers and guiding it over the paper. “Where do you want it?” I ask, “The glitter?” She makes a noise, a kind of growl, at the back of her throat and I can feel her little hand resisting. I let go and she shakes the tube, rather less wildly, but still too messily, over the castle. Again, I tidy the glitter with the edge of a finger.
We look at each other.
She reaches for the last tube of glitter. Too late, I have it in my hand.
She looks at me, a flash of anger.
“Do you want it?” I ask, holding the last tube of golden glitter towards her. She looks back, her arms crossed. She is defiant. She wants it all right. But she will not say. I look at her, holding her gaze. And I will do it until she looks away.
She does and, as I go to give her the tube, she reaches instead for the red one again and, before I can stop her, she shakes the glitter all over the drawing. Some of it goes on the table. Most of it is on the floor. Then she stands up as if satisfied with what she’s done and, in doing so, knocks the open tub of glue over. I see a small, snotty blob fall onto the carpet.
She goes very still. Will not look at me at all.
It is all I can do not to slap her stupid little hand. But I will not. Nor will I speak sharply to her. For I am a calm man.
I leave the room to get some kitchen roll.
When I return, she is still standing there, almost motionless, looking down at the table and her drawing. I pick it up and shake the glitter off carefully and hand it to her. She will not raise her hand to take it. I push it into her hand but she will not open her fingers.
I place her drawing carefully on the edge of the table as I start to clear up the mess as best I can, putting the paper to one side with the glitter and glue on top, and wiping and mopping and folding the scattered glue and glitter from one piece of kitchen roll to the other. I walk back to the kitchen and put it in the bin.
When I get back, she is sitting quietly on an armchair, having unwrapped some raisins and is eating them one by one. She looks at me as if she is close to crying – it may, I think, be an act – and holds the carton of drink up towards me. I take it, pull off the straw on the side, put it in the hole and give it back to her.
“Do you have anything to say to me?”
I expect her to say sorry. She does not. She asks for her drawing.
I hand it to her without a word.
We sit there opposite each other for a few minutes as she looks at the picture while she drinks from the carton and picks at the raisins. When she is finished, she slips off the armchair and takes a step to the coffee table and places the carton and the foil carefully next to each other on the edge. She looks at me.
“Time for a nap?” I ask.
“Peppa,” she answers. I echo her word in reply, as if asking a question.
She reaches for her pink rucksack, pulls at the zip and takes out a little pink pig.
At that, she seems docile, even tired, and, to my surprise, she reaches for my hand as I walk her towards Adrian’s room. I expect her to be fractious and awkward, not wanting to lie down, or sleep, but she climbs readily enough onto his duvet, arranges the pink pig next to her face and seems to be asleep almost as soon as her head touches the pillow.
I sit quietly in the living room for a minute or two, to get my breath, deciding what to do next. I cannot remember how long the child is expected to sleep for. Not long, I think. Not enough time to do anything properly. I will, I think, just take a few minutes to complete my diary about her and him. And how it all ended
.
THURSDAY 27 JULY, 4.00PM
I will write about the pivotal moment in what will be my decline and fall.
The end of the marriage.
This came no more than one hour after what I call the seafront incident.
Returning to the bungalow, I drove the car onto the drive and up to the garage. I sat there, the headlights on the faded brown door, thinking what to do. Subduing my anger and fury. Going over my plan. Working it all through logically, the pros and cons of each option. Step by step. Confirming my plan of action is correct. The only way. No other choice. After a few minutes, having decided, and with things clear in my head, I got out of the car and walked to the front of the bungalow.
She had cuckolded me. Would leave me, start divorce proceedings. To be with him.
I would lose the bungalow, the life savings, my pride, my standing, everything that was important to me.
I’d be finished. My share of the money would amount to no more than a caravan on some ghastly site, drip-feeding the little money that was left until I ended up on benefits to the day I died. I cannot have that. That is not right and proper. Not for me. A (former) officer of Her Majesty.
The outside light cast a dim glow over the porch. Adrian must have turned it on when he came in from his evening work and went to bed. He had left a paper bag containing food and drink from McDonalds on the doorstep, which annoyed me. He should have taken it round to the bins and put it in there, but, I assume, could not be bothered to do it in the dark and had left it there until the morning. Or maybe he’d put it down to let himself into the bungalow and had then forgotten about it. Either way, a cat had got to it. There was half-eaten food and wrappers everywhere and a stream of Coca-Cola had zig-zagged its way down the drive. I pushed the food and wrappers to one side with my foot and entered the bungalow.
Listening quietly.
I walked slowly to Adrian’s room. Put my ear to his door. I could hear, I think, the faint sound of his steady breathing. Asleep but a light sleeper. He would wake up to any noise, loud voices, shouting, maybe even a sudden cry or scream.
I went to the kitchen.
It was a full moon that night. I remember it well as the light shone through the window and I could see how smeared the pane was; the wipe marks, spreading the grime back and forth in a rainbow-shaped arc. I looked around the kitchen and found what I was looking for. What I needed. Holding it, I turned and went out of the bungalow, pulling the front door and then the porch door gently to behind me.
Moved to the car, got in, reversed it out of the driveway and then back in so the front faced out towards the road. I left the headlights on, blinding anyone looking in.
Out and to the garage, door up and in, pulling it half-closed behind me.
I stood by the shelves at the back of the garage. Looked at what was there. A pot of acid for tree stumps. An axe. Hammers. A spanner. Saws. Old rope.
I waited there for her to arrive back.
Minutes passed.
Five? Ten? It seemed so long.
I came close to losing my nerve, leaving the garage, turning off the car lights, going back indoors, getting ready for bed. So near to changing my mind, giving in, accepting the outcome, and all that would happen to me if I did not act now.
As I hesitated, a car – his car – pulled up, drove a little way along. Stopped, just out of sight. When she got out, I was not sure, seeing my car headlights on, what she would do next. I held my breath.
I thought – I assumed – she would say goodbye to him, then walk up the path and see the car lights on and the garage door open and walk in to check what was happening. I would be here, waiting for her. Could pull the garage door down behind her.
That was what I expected and I was ready for that moment.
Or she might ignore the car, the lights, the half-open garage and simply go into the bungalow. But the rubbish, Adrian’s leftovers kicked to one side, would stop her in her tracks. She would clear them up, bring the bits and pieces round to the bins by the gate by the garage as he should have done. I would open the garage side door and, as she put the rubbish into the blue bin, she would look up and see me standing there, smiling benignly at her.
I was ready for that possibility too.
Either way, I was prepared.
For what I was going to do.
What I did not anticipate was what actually happened. I heard voices on the driveway, soft and talkative, and then a sudden silence, followed by brisk footsteps, and the sound of the porch door being opened. Her. Going in. I turned and moved to the side door of the garage, unlocking it, opening it a little so that I could see the three bins, grey, blue and green. Waited for her to appear, carrying the rubbish over from the front doorstep.
I stood there, tense, on edge, ready.
The garage door behind me was pulled right up above head height.
A voice. His. “Hello, everything alright?”
I stumbled forward, dropping what was in my hand on the ground outside the garage side door. I stepped back, turned, looked at him in the dim twilight. Did not know, for a moment, what to say.
“Has your car got a flat?” he asked, moving forward to see me more clearly. My face could be seen, I think, from the moonlight through the side door.
“I’m a friend of your wife, Philip, from school. We went and saw a variety show over at the Spa, several of us from work. Very good it was too.” He stepped further forward.
I smiled at him. My mind racing. Not sure what to say.
Or do. I had not expected this. Was not ready. The bare-faced cheek of it. The lies. The sheer brass neck of the man.
I shook my head. Cleared my throat. Answered him.
“All is well, thank you,” I said carefully. “I’ve just been looking for…” I tailed off, could not think of what to say.
We both stood there for a moment looking at each other.
He has the nerve of the devil. Coming in like this. Pretending he’s just a friend. I know better. I read your texts. Not one hour ago, I stood near your car, watching it rock from side to side. When you were deep inside her.
I gestured towards the front of the garage, indicating we should both leave.
We walked together to the driveway. I opened my car door and leaned in to turn off the lights. He took a few more paces and stopped and turned.
Too late now.
A chance missed.
He spoke.
“Well,” he said, neutrally, “nice to meet you. I’ll be seeing you.” He then paused and, although I could not see his face clearly, I could swear that he smiled a not-very-nice smile, a sneer, as he added the words that changed everything. “And do say goodbye and give my love to Dawn.”
I simply turned and walked back into the garage.
Pulled the door down behind me.
Moved to the side door. Saw her at the bins, just as I had thought she would be.
I bent over and picked up what I had dropped.
She looked at me. I smiled at her.
And she looked down at the heavy, copper-bottomed saucepan I was holding.
Our eyes met and I could not help but giggle just a little bit.
I will pause here. I am writing about it as best I can, as well as I can remember it.
I will then, once I have made sense of it all in my mind, tear out and burn the pages.
I do not want anyone else to read them. Ever.
THURSDAY 27 JULY, 4.42PM
It’s really just too hot to do anything other than sit here writing my diary nice and slowly. I should move, maybe tidy up the lunch things. I said to leave them, that I would do them. They hurried off to the cinema fast enough. Left everything to me. But it is all too exhausting.
Thirty minutes, was it? To leave the child asleep? That’s not long. Is an hour too much? Do I leave her until she wakes? I cannot remember what Josie actually said. I think I may just sit here and listen. Wait until I hear her stirring. Then go and wake her up.
If I am hones
t, I could do with shutting my eyes too. Just for a moment – 10, 15 minutes at most. To recuperate. To recharge the batteries. To rejuvenate myself, refreshed and ready for the child waking and getting up. The heat makes me sleepy at times.
I awake suddenly, disorientated for a moment, not sure what it is that has woken me. I must have nodded off. I sit here, drenched in sweat, listening. Frightened of what is coming. I turn towards the door, assuming I have been woken by the sound of someone racing into the bungalow, coming straight for me. I struggle to my feet, as if to defend myself.
I wait here, in not much more than a crouch, but there is nothing but silence. Just my imagination. And then I remember the girl, asleep in Adrian’s room. I get fully to my feet, but slowly, finding that somehow my lower back has stiffened up on me.
I walk, plod really, towards the bedroom, to wake the child. I did not check the clock in the living room, and have no watch on my wrist, but it feels as though I, and she, have been asleep for some time, an hour, possibly two.
I remember now that she was not meant to sleep for more than 30 or 40 minutes, that a longer one would make it harder to get her settled tonight. I need to wake her so they will not know how long she has been asleep when they return from the cinema. I will simply say “not too long” when asked.
I push open Adrian’s door.
She is not on the bed. Nowhere to be seen.
The duvet is as it was.
I panic for a moment, then check myself. I am all jittery, my nerves on edge. Assuming the worst. She will be in the bathroom, going to the toilet. I walk to the door, stop and listen, knock on it. There is no response. I wait a moment. Open the door. She is not in there.
I pause, thinking.
Is she hiding from me?
Gone off to explore?
I go back into the bedroom. Look around. Nowhere to hide here. Except? I go down onto my knees, slowly, move the edge of the duvet back, looking beneath the bed. No, not there. The wardrobe? The only place – but the doors are pulled to. She could not have got in it and shut them behind her. Could she? No, but I check anyway. To be sure. No, not there.
Mr Todd's Reckoning Page 12