‘Braised lentils and dumplings.’
Enhanced with lashings of red wine, braised lentils taste meaty, thus satisfying Rhodri, a non-wheat-eating vegan, and me, a bread-munching omnivore. So, I’ll be making the dumplings with what? Rice flour, or barley flour… I go down to the kitchen to take a look in the cupboards and see what we have.
Cooking for Rhodri can be a very long and complicated process. His mother, Margaret No. 3 (so-called because Jack’s dead grandmother on Damien’s side is Margaret No. 1, and her replacement, Damien’s stepmother, is Margaret No. 2) is American and an amazing cook. I am English and extremely competitive. Margaret No. 3 creates beautiful homemade meals: fish chowder, venison meatloaf, dhal, stuffed field mushrooms, you name it; even the simplest ingredients, like boiled vegetables, take on some otherworldly quality. This is because Margaret No. 3 marinates her food in motherly love.
Also, Rhodri will eat no processed food, no commercially produced sauces and nothing tinned (unless the contents are organic), no microwave meals, no pre-washed salads or ready-peeled vegetables so I have to scrub and cook everything from scratch. I have to check the ingredients on everything because Rhodri will not eat any chemicals – you’d be surprised how many products contain anti-caking agents or sweeteners. Recently we signed up for an allotment and have been trying to grow our own vegetables.
I need to be at least as good a cook as Margaret No. 3 (if not better) so that one day Rhodri will worship not just his mother but me too. Initially this was difficult, because the only meal I could put together was ham sandwiches with salad and crisps, which is no good to a non-wheat-eating vegan.
Our romance improved greatly after I enrolled on a Cordon Vert School of Cookery course at the Vegetarian Society in Cheshire, where a tutor provided me with the basic skills to manage our kitchen… I can’t help but think that living with a vegetarian would be much easier than it is living with a vegan. As for living with a meat-eater, the very idea is becoming a full-blown fetish.
The sawing has come to an abrupt stop. Under the guise of helpfulness, I take myself upstairs to see how things are progressing.
The bed looks like a futon. ‘I didn’t think you were going to cut the legs quite so short.’
‘No choice,’ says Rhodri.
It looks skewed to me. Perhaps he should have used a spirit level. ‘Fantastic,’ I say. ‘Jack will love it. Like a sofa.’ I scatter some cushions over it. ‘See?’
What an inspired idea it was to convince Rhodri that the only way to finish decorating Jack’s bedroom was to work all through the evening again. We stop at midnight and take ourselves off to the Bombay Balti down the road, a rough-shod establishment that does itself no justice with its blue neon sign and chintz wallpaper. It is, however, the friendliest, tastiest Indian restaurant I have ever been to. Rhodri is impressed because even the poppadoms are homemade, wheat-free and vegan, as are the onion bhajiis. Two glasses of wine later, we decide that this is ‘our’ place. Of course we don’t say that, but I know we’ll come back with Jack.
Then it’s home for more sex because tomorrow I need Rhodri to lay the carpet and help me hang curtains, tidy up and replace toys in time for Jack’s return. If we carry on like this, I’ll be slim but knackered in no time.
It’s now Sunday morning and we need to finish Jack’s bedroom. I’m driving Rhodri mad. He says I’m grumpy when Jack’s with his grandparents, and when he’s at home I’m giddy. I enjoy spending time alone with Rhodri but life feels sparkly with a child; you never know in which direction a day will go. One minute you’re thinking about bills and work, and the next, an elbow-high quizmaster is challenging you to rapid-fire ‘name that line’ from the back catalogue of films he’s memorized verbatim.
I have never met a small boy as grateful as Jack, which is wonderful, but also sad. During the Dark Years, when things turned bad with Damien, a period much shorter than the Ice Age but just as cold, Jack would open the fridge door and thank me for buying food. He would hug me tightly around the waist and say, ‘Thank you, Mummy,’ just for buying six tiny pots of fromage frais. He went crazy when I bought crisps or biscuits or an ice lolly. So, now that I have redecorated his room, with new curtains, a funky duvet cover, a rug, a beanbag chair and some Futurama posters, he may explode.
I was right.
Later, the three of us are sitting on Jack’s bed, wearing pyjamas because Jack insisted on a pyjama party to celebrate his new bedroom. When he saw it he gasped and threw himself onto the beanbag. ‘Oh, thank you,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’ He loves it all. I knew he would. Three walls are matt blue, one is metallic blue, and we’ve painted big silver circles on his white wardrobe doors at the far end of the room. We used chalkboard paint on the wardrobe so that Jack can draw on it if he wants to. His toys are lined up on the windowsill and his favourite bears are slouched over the pillows. The short-legs bed seems to have worked wonders too, so the accident was a blessing.
Now we’re cuddled up beneath the lamplight, drinking cocoa, biting into toast, and waiting for Rhodri to sit down and read to us. When he opens Ted Hughes’s The Iron Man, Jack and I applaud, then settle into the pillows and wait for the story to begin.
2
In the weeks since Rhodri and I became cohabitants our home life has been a teensy bit tricky. For example, this evening I return home from my office job in town, working for Athens on his literature website, and fall onto my favourite chair – leather, high-backed, used to belong to my father – fully expecting a cup of tea, a snog and a fanfare… only to discover that MY BOOKSHELF IS BEING REARRANGED.
‘What are you doing?’ I blurt out.
‘Putting my books on the shelf,’ replies Rhodri, taken aback.
The bookshelves double as soundproofing and are lined up against the wall to muffle Kirsty’s singing next door. There is a system to the bookshelves. It may not be the Dewey decimal system but it’s mine: non-fiction, cookery, literary fiction, commercial fiction, translation, poetry, Spanish language, feminist theory, drama, children’s fiction. There is a system within these categories. Loosely, they are ordered by size, then by favourite. It’s so random that only I understand it. And as I used to be the only inhabitant here, other than Jack, it wasn’t a problem. Now Rhodri is moving the books and shoving them all over the place.
‘There is an aesthetic to the system,’ I tell him. Scream at him. ‘An aesthetic.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ he scoffs.
‘There is.’ I point it out to him. ‘I can’t believe I’ve come home to this.’
In retrospect I can’t believe I’ve come to this: too many years living on my own, commanding my own space, and I behave like a teenager. I upset Rhodri. We could have rearranged the books together.
Later, to make amends for my bad behaviour and to bond us back together again, I suggest that the three of us go on a bike ride tomorrow from Jackson, the town where we live, to Skelton a few miles away, stopping to drop Jack with Damien’s stepmother (that’s Margaret No. 2) and going on to see my father, who also lives in Skelton, as does my big sister, Josephine. If we’re lucky we’ll cadge lunch at my father’s house, and dinner at Josephine’s.
Jack and I never did anything like this before Rhodri came along because I was just too petrified to go out alone. Even taking Jack to the park was a drama after what Damien had done to me.
The first leg of the journey was a breeze. Now we’re resting in Margaret No. 2’s kitchen. Jack is slurping orange juice, I’m flicking through the Mirror, feigning horror at the latest celebrity gossip, and Rhodri is chatting to Margaret, who’s standing by the window, about the merits of non-chemical washing-up liquid and how the ordinary variety pollutes the waterways. At least I think that’s what they’re talking about. I’m distracted, though, because Margaret has gone quiet, her spectacles have slipped down her nose, and she’s wafting her arms back and forth.
‘What?’ I mouth. ‘What?’
She places a finger to her lips to indicat
e that we shouldn’t speak.
Is this a game?
Suddenly she rushes into the hall and I hear her say loudly and clearly, ‘Hello, DAMIEN. Your dad isn’t here, DAMIEN. He’s just gone to the pub, DAMIEN. You’ll find him there.’
Then I hear Damien’s voice. It’s been years, almost five now, but he sounds exactly the same. We can’t just sit here – can’t just wait for him to find us. Think… think… I look out to the garden where bath towels are hanging on the washing line. Grabbing Jack’s arm I lead him out through the back door.
‘What are we doing?’ asks Jack.
‘Just going into the garden.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s a secret.’
I make eye instructions to Rhodri, who follows. Amazing how once you get to know someone you no longer need words to communicate, just grunts and gestures.
We stand on the lawn, hiding behind the towels flapping in the breeze, no doubt revealing our legs. Rhodri is bent double because he’s so tall.
‘Why are we hiding behind the washing?’ asks Jack, over and over again. His bottom lip quivers. ‘You’re making me feel scared.’
‘There’s nothing to be scared of,’ I soothe. ‘I’m here, Rhodri is here, and Nana Margaret is here.’
‘I feel stupid,’ says Rhodri.
So do I.
But then Jack’s voice fills with excitement: ‘It’s my dad, isn’t it?’
I’m going to lie. It’s a horrible thing to do. ‘No. It’s only a man,’ I say uncertainly. ‘Just a man, Jack.’
‘Then why are we hiding behind Nana’s towels?’
Margaret calls to us from the patio, ‘He’s gone. Maria, what are you doing?’
Sheepishly I shuffle out from behind the washing line. Jack follows, persistent in his inquiries: ‘That was my dad, and you made me hide behind a towel?’
‘Yes.’
Jack has only recently figured out that Eddie, Margaret’s husband, is Damien’s father. There are no pictures of Damien in their house. In all these years Damien has never appeared at their house unannounced when Jack and I have been there. He vanished from our lives. I was beginning to enjoy his absence.
‘It was the bikes,’ says Margaret. ‘He was walking past and he saw them. That’s what made him come in. Next time,’ she adds, ‘bring the bikes through to the back of the house.’
‘Where has my dad gone?’ demands Jack.
‘I’ve no idea,’ I say.
‘He was in the house and you made me hide behind the washing line?’
Mothers do peculiar things, and I do more peculiar things than most: like refusing to open windows in the mad hot heat of summer, sleeping with the light on, refusing to put the bins out at night or even to step into the garden after dark.
‘I panicked,’ I explain. ‘I heard his voice and wanted to hide. It’s all I could think of doing. My body did it, not me.’
I’m not superhuman.
Margaret is miffed. She knows that Damien’s appearance at her house could jeopardize her special day with Jack, her gold-plated shining star of a grandson. She has no children of her own, but does have two Shih Tzus, Pixi and Fifi, that rank almost but not quite as highly as Jack: she feeds them fillet steak, they sleep on her king-size bed and she takes them to the park in Jack’s old pushchair because they’re too lazy to walk. Jack has his own room at Margaret’s complete with toys, PlayStation 2, DVD player, flat-screen TV, CDs – he even has a stash of clothes, all far better than I can afford to buy.
Reluctantly, I leave him with Margaret on the promise that should Damien return – which seems unlikely: he will probably bag a couple of pints from his father and go wandering – I’m to be called immediately. I’ll be just down the road at my father’s house.
My mobile will be switched on. If Damien appears, Rhodri and I will race back to the house, retrieve Jack and off we’ll go, full speed on our bicycles. I may need to rethink our choice of getaway vehicle. And route.
Rhodri and I have just sat down at my father’s, when, as I’m relaying the story of what has just happened to my stepmother, Eleanor, my phone rings.
‘He’s here,’ whispers Margaret.
‘Where’s Jack?’ I whisper back.
‘I pushed him over the fence into Michael’s garden.’
Michael lives next door to Margaret. He’s a caring single dad to three young boys, who spend much of their time bouncing up and down on a trampoline. When Jack stays with Margaret he bounds between Michael’s house and hers. Before Rhodri and I became serious, I used to think about asking Michael out, but maybe I couldn’t have coped with so many lost boys.
‘Damien is demanding to see Jack,’ says Margaret.
‘I’ll be there in five minutes. Do not let Damien see Jack. I’ll sort this out when I get there.’
I don’t want Rhodri to witness any of this. If it hadn’t been for Damien’s arrival, our bike ride would have been perfect: the sky is blue, the sun’s shining, there’s a sharp chill in the air, the birds are thinking about migrating, then changing their minds and resting on bare branches. I’m wearing a fluorescent yellow cycling jacket – not sexy at all. Poor Rhodri. What if Damien tries to fight him? He’ll think Jack and I are too much bother to live with so he’ll pack up and leave. Then Jack will feel abandoned again. I wish I had a happy history, really I do. I wish I could say, ‘I fell in love with my childhood sweetheart, we married young. He died. He loved us very much.’ I wish I had the kind of past that speaks of romance and passion, not violence and trauma.
‘Are you going to let Jack see him?’ asks Rhodri.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Do you want me to sit with you when you talk to him?’
‘I should do this on my own.’
‘Shall I stay close by?’
‘If you could.’
I knock on Michael’s door. He shows us in, shakes Rhodri’s hand, and encourages me to step into the hallway. ‘Jack is upstairs playing with the boys,’ he says, with a smile. ‘He’s fine.’
I feel awkward that Michael has wound up in this. ‘Can Rhodri stay here while I go next door to speak to Damien?’ I ask.
‘Certainly.’ He turns to Rhodri. ‘Families can be so complicated.’
I remember all the times when Damien turned up at my old house in the early hours of the morning, banging and shouting for me to open the door.
Hearing my voice, Jack bolts down the stairs. ‘My dad’s next door,’ he stammers.
‘I know.’
‘So, can I see him?’
Rhodri kisses my cheek. ‘Sit by the window,’ he says. ‘I’ll watch you from here. At the first sign of trouble I’ll come and get you. How are you feeling?’
‘Nervous.’
But as Jack takes my hand and we leave Michael’s house, I’m frightened. We walk steadily down the driveway and to Margaret’s. Jack holds his breath, his little fingers tiptap between mine. The front door has been left open for us so we walk straight into the kitchen. We gaze out of the window to the garden, where Damien stands. From his mouth a drooping cigarette casts swirls of smoke into the air. We watch as he bends down to tie his shoelace. Upright, he stares blankly ahead of him. Not at the house, or the roses, or the pear tree. He just stands there. Empty.
Jack looks up at me, bursting with expectation.
‘Would you like to speak to him, Jack?’ I ask.
‘Yes.’
I had thought I could walk with Jack to join Damien, but I can’t. How weak. I can’t even stroll with my son to meet his father so he’s left to do it alone. Jack looks so tiny, so hopeful. I watch sadly as Damien scoops him into his arms. I try not to cry when Jack clings to him and burrows his head into the warm space on his shoulder, trying to breathe in his daddy’s smell.
‘Hello, mate,’ says Damien.
When he attempts to set his son back on the ground, Jack will not let go. His little hands grip Damien’s as he gazes up into his face, nodding solemnly and replying in brief
but well-formed sentences, eager to impress, eager to be the best little boy he can. Jack is wonderstruck by his very own hero standing right before him.
When Damien catches sight of me in the kitchen, he heads indoors with Jack. We sit opposite each other at the dining-table, while Jack takes the big chair at the head: he’s sitting between his mum and dad – all three of us together for the first time in years.
Damien attempts time and again to get me to talk but I have nothing to say. Whenever I had imagined this moment, it was with fear, but now when I look at him I am filled with regret. He may be dressed smartly, but his clothes appear dirty from a heavy night out. He struggles to talk to us, repeating the same few words over and over again. Jack will remember none of this. He will only remember the wonder of seeing him again, hearing him say, ‘I think about you every day, son. I love you, son.’
After twenty minutes, Jack unhappily collects his shoes to go. When I leave the table to gather my keys from the kitchen, Damien follows me.
‘When can I see my dad again?’ calls Jack, from the hall. ‘He says you’ll arrange it with him. You will, won’t you, Mum?’
‘We’ll see.’
I don’t like being alone in the kitchen with Damien: he leans in too close, until my back is pushed against the wall, his body blocking me. ‘You and me,’ he mutters. ‘You know what I’m talking about.’
I’d rather not be loved than be loved by Damien. But there’s something. He has this look, always had it, that makes me want to love him. I see that look in Jack too.
‘It won’t happen,’ I say. ‘Ever.’
That evening, as I lie on my bed, I feel weightless. I’m happier, and relieved: I understand now that I wasn’t to blame. After all this time Damien is the same as he ever was. It wasn’t my fault that he did what he did to me.
‘You need to come downstairs,’ calls Rhodri.
‘A minute.’
‘You need to come downstairs now,’ he says steadily.
Rhodri is sitting with his legs stretched out on the kitchen floor, Jack flopped over his lap, sobbing. ‘He was talking to me about Damien.’
Single Mother on the Verge Page 2