Single Mother on the Verge

by Maria Roberts

  ‘Vegan,’ I correct.

  ‘I’m not a vegan,’ Jack cries. ‘You like this food, I don’t.’

  I’m not certain I like it either but, frankly, at this time of night, I’ll put anything into my mouth. ‘It’s good to try new food,’ I plead. ‘This’ll make you strong and Rhodri has worked so hard to make dinner for us. We should eat it.’

  Jack is upset, and now Rhodri is upset, making me the hungry piggy in the middle.

  ‘We didn’t have a choice about what we ate when we were your age,’ Rhodri says grumpily. I can’t imagine his mother ever made him eat such a strange concoction as chickpea and beetroot soup. He’s told me he ate sausages as a child.

  I smile at Jack persuasively. ‘If you eat all your dinner, I’ll give you a gold star. How’s that? We’ll get a star chart going and when you have twenty stars you can have a treat. What do you think?’

  ‘Okay,’ he concedes. He takes a gulp of soup, but with the spoon still in his mouth he begins to bawl, ‘I can’t believe my own mother is trying to kill me.’ He splutters the soup back onto his spoon. ‘My mother is trying to kill me.’ He leaps off his chair and runs upstairs to his room.

  A storm’s brewing. I can feel it.

  5

  Jack wanted to stay the night at my mother’s, and I needed to escape, so I arranged a last-minute trip to London. It’s a break, but it’s also research as I’d like to write a play or a film one day, though I don’t know when I’ll get the time. I sit on a high stool in the café at the National Film Theatre, swinging my legs nervously as I pick at a sandwich. I gaze out of the window, watching arty types saunter by the river Thames, pausing to rummage through boxes crammed with second-hand books at the makeshift market. Zelda, my best friend from my postgraduate days at university, is sitting next to me drinking a bucket-sized coffee and running her hands through her curly hair, regaling me with tales of unrequited love. She has recently returned from travelling around Italy where romance followed every sunset. She lives in Manchester, but is in London today for an academic conference. ‘You’re so lucky,’ she says, over the clatter of plates and the chuff-chuff of the coffee machine.

  ‘It’s a different climate down here,’ I say, pretending not to have heard her comment. ‘Always so warm.’ As far as I’m concerned London may as well be on a faraway continent: people speak a different language, live in apartments, not houses, are spoiled with more sunshine, and eat artichokes.

  Jack would love London. He’d like the galleries and the theatres and the parks, although he’d hate walking up and down all those steps to the Tube, or getting squashed on a bus. Rhodri will only visit London for an anti-Trident or disarmament protest, not something flimsy like a play at a theatre.

  ‘Rhodri is such a fantastic guy,’ she continues. ‘You’ve got it made.’

  ‘I haven’t got it “made” at all.’

  ‘You have.’ She laughs, sipping her coffee. ‘You have Rhodri, and you have this other man, Toga. And Rhodri is totally fine about it.’

  Oh, yes. That.

  My old flame Toga lives in London so I asked him to accompany me to the theatre this evening. We haven’t met up in months. I wonder if I still fancy him, or if he’s changed. Zelda is intrigued by the arrangement Rhodri and I have. I suppose you wouldn’t call it a normal relationship, but it feels quite normal to us. ‘Perhaps you’re suited to an open relationship,’ I suggest.

  Zelda shakes her head, as though to say, ‘Are you mad? What kind of person suggests to their partner that they have an open relationship?’

  A swinger, or an enviro-anti-establishment vegan, that’s who.

  ‘You look so good together. When I saw you last summer…’ she’s referring to when Rhodri and I cycled over the river from Jackson to Boho to meet her and our friend Prince for a drink, then trundled back in the dark ‘… on your bikes…’ she’s going to say ‘romantic’ ‘… it was so romantic.’

  ‘I was pissed,’ I say. ‘I fell off my bike. That wasn’t romantic.’ Anxious to change the subject, I ask, ‘When are you heading back to Manchester?’

  ‘Tonight. What time are you meeting Toga?’

  I check the time on my mobile. Six o’clock. He’ll be finishing work about now.

  ‘That was delicious,’ I murmur, wiping my mouth on my sleeve and regaining my balance. I feel quite dizzy, must be the – ‘Easy, Tiger-bear.’

  Toga is diving in for more kisses. He’s doing that thing he does with my hair, gathering it in tight fistfuls while he nibbles me. His hands are roaming too. I pull back from him. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘You know.’ I make a sweeping gesture with my arm in the direction of the crowds of people swarming past us into the theatre, most of them aged fifty-plus and signed up members of Saga. ‘The public.’ Saucy behaviour is de rigueur in Madrid, but in England we call it dogging. Oh, forget the play, we should just go shagging. Only there’s nowhere to have sex, unless we rent a room for the hour, and I’ve just paid for the theatre tickets so that would be a terrible waste of money.

  We make our way into the Cottesloe Theatre to find our seats. Fortunately they’re located at the back, very close to the exit. Handy, should we wish to leave early and make illicit use of the toilets. When the lights go down and the play begins, I fidget uncomfortably in an attempt to get closer to Toga. He looks sternly ahead. Then, catching my lascivious stare, he points to my eyes with a chastening finger, then to the stage. I huff and watch the drama unfolding before us. Minutes pass, then my fingers tiptoe along Toga’s thigh. I lean into his shoulder. I remove my shoes and rest my feet between his legs. He grabs my hand. I stroke his fingers.

  During the interval, I browse in the theatre bookshop while Toga jostles for the drinks at the bar. Then I tuck myself into a corner where I steal short kisses from him between sips of red wine.

  ‘Like it?’ he asks, removing his glasses and rubbing the tail end of his scarf over the lenses. He gazes at me, waiting for an answer, but I just rock on the sides of my feet in my patent ballet pumps, my dress swishing against my knees, fascinated by this lens-cleansing ritual of his. Toga is one of those media-savvy Londoners; he’s as exotic to me as a foreign holiday.

  ‘Do you like it?’

  ‘It’s all right,’ he says. ‘A little slow.’

  By the time the play is over, I’m tipsy and starving. We have an endless discussion about where to dine. ‘Well, what type of food do you want to eat?’ Toga asks finally.

  ‘I’m not bothered,’ I reply.

  And so, because it’s late, we end up outside Strada.

  ‘I’ve already eaten here this week, and I probably will again tomorrow,’ says Toga.

  ‘Let’s just go in,’ I reply. ‘I’ve never been to Strada.’ Any more dithering and there’ll be no time for smooching after dinner because, come midnight, lover-boy will be running off to catch the Tube home.

  An hour later, we’ve finished our food and sunk our last glass of wine. When the waiter brings the bill, and Toga pays, he says, ‘You’re very lucky to have such a generous husband.’

  Boy, has he got it wrong.

  We start walking over the river across Hungerford Bridge in the direction of Embankment station. Toga strides quickly, I loiter and dally, stopping every so often to look out at the view across the Thames, each time grasping for his hand. I’m bewitched by the colour of London at night, the chatter of trains as they clatter past, the austere silhouette of the Houses of Parliament, and the bulbous dome of St Paul’s Cathedral. Beneath the bridge a quartet plays rhumba on makeshift instruments, while a group of young girls dance. I love how strangers rush from place to place, that they behave carelessly and arrogantly towards one another as they try to get across the city, but in the theatre they laugh together.

  Toga points out landmarks to me. I look at the lights reflected on the river like little dreams. I wrap my arms around Toga’s waist and beg him to kiss me.

  When we have reached the far side of the bridge, Tog
a sits on a bench and I sit on his lap. I love that I’m in London with him, far from all the difficulties at home.

  ‘Did you have sex, then?’ asks Rhodri. He is bent over the cooker, shaking the kettle to see if there’s enough water to make a cup of tea. He runs the cold-water tap, fills it and slams it on the hob. Then he turns the dial, and presses the ignition until the hob snaps alight. ‘Well?’ he insists. ‘Did you?’ He smiles at me encouragingly. ‘Let’s get it out of the way. So I’m not wondering.’

  ‘No,’ I say truthfully. ‘There was nowhere to have sex. I stayed at a backpackers’ hostel and shared a room with strangers. The rest of the time I was in a theatre surrounded by senior citizens.’

  Rhodri laughs at me, rather than with me. Modern technology, I think, has a lot to answer for. Its pros: text-sex while grocery shopping; e-seduction while working. Its cons (with particular reference to CCTV, video mobile phones, and YouTube): you can’t have sex in the street, in pub toilets, in the park. Modern technology is therefore a passion killer. Which is why Rhodri is laughing at me: he considers me a frustrated pint-sized nymphomaniac, a pornographic hobbit.

  Rhodri and Jack picked me up from the station. Jack ran at me almost knocking me to the ground. The short break seems to have been good for both of us. Rhodri didn’t even kiss me. Or hold me. Or welcome me back. Sometimes I doubt that he’s pleased to see me at all. Sometimes I think he regards me as a full-time nuisance: I eat meat, I want to clean the house with chemical products and spend, spend, spend. He does, however, seem pleased that I didn’t have sex. I’d almost say he’s relieved. Rhodri is such an odd fish: he flies into a raging debate when I use Fairy Liquid, and asks me if I’ve enjoyed myself when I spend time with other men. Damien would become jealous when I took a shower and wore skimpy knickers to university.

  Rhodri is an anomaly to me.

  He doesn’t know anything about Toga, other than that I have a ‘close’ friend who lives in London. From time to time, when I visit London, I see this ‘close’ friend. Which Rhodri is fine about, because it means I’m not wandering across the capital on my own like a tourist: someone else, someone who isn’t a threat, is looking after me. As Rhodri hates London, this makes logistical and practical sense. Rhodri knows that Toga has other girlfriends and, because of that, I’m not going anywhere. Even if I did, I’d boomerang back. And I do love Rhodri: Toga, he’s just a bit of fun. At least, I think he is.

  I plan to cook Rhodri a lovely dinner: the only vegan meal I do really well: banana and leek curry. When Jack’s in bed, we’ll sneak upstairs for an early night and I’ll try to forget about the weird arrangement I have with Toga until the next time. There’s too much going on already with Damien and Jack for me to start worrying about anything else.

  6

  So much for trying to be calm and positive. Nothing ever goes to plan. I hate this house. The heating’s broken down again and we have no hot water. I must have an icy body wash because it takes fifteen minutes to boil the kettle on the gas hob. It’s so cold that my toes sting, my fingers are numb and my head hurts. A gale blows through the windows, pushing beneath the door and through the hall. I’m standing on the landing wearing my mother’s tent-like knickers, which I stole from her when I stayed over one night. Meanwhile, Rhodri is wrapped up beneath the bed-covers: socks on, pyjamas on, sweatshirt on, hat on. Jack has the spare blankets, a quilt, a sleeping-bag, and the only hot-water bottle. We own an electric blanket but Rhodri would never agree to use it because it’s such a waste of resources. So, our only option is to pile on the layers. In addition to the big knickers, I pull on jogging pants, a T-shirt, a fleece, socks, a hat and gloves. My choice of sleepwear is a 100-per-cent-effective contraceptive. I dive into bed, where Rhodri and I paw at one another affectionately, grinding our legs up and down as though shunting up a fireman’s pole. Nothing sexual. The sole intention is for the friction to create heat. Once warm, we’d be crazy to get undressed.

  If only we had money to buy clothes or shoes or furniture or a new boiler to keep us warm. I know Rhodri and I will start to argue. In my eyes, everything is wrong, and everything is unfair. The house isn’t big enough for the three of us. Rhodri piles his things in a corner and stacks bin-bag after bin-bag of his old clothes on cardboard boxes. We share one small wardrobe, which is held together with gaffer tape. It was a hand-me-down from some friends who live in a big house and own a villa in Spain. Before it arrived with us it had spent two years in their garage. Under the bed is a toolbox, and next to it an old fax machine my stepfather gave me. On the dressing-table is the breadmaker Margaret No. 2 passed on to me, while dirty clothes from our day on the allotment are thrown on the floor, and clean clothes, because we don’t have anywhere to put them, are in the laundry basket. Odd socks lie on the windowsill like dead rats. Only last week Margaret No. 2 walked into the bedroom and immediately walked out, shaking her head. ‘I can’t see you get up to much in here,’ she said. ‘You need a boudoir.’

  And she’s right. We don’t get up to much in here. A boudoir is just one of the many things I need.

  When we’ve warmed each other, Rhodri slants towards the light. In one hand he picks up a Welsh novel, in the other a Welsh dictionary.

  ‘Any good?’ I inquire.

  ‘Not bad,’ he says.

  ‘Will you be reading for long?’ I probe.

  ‘A bit longer,’ replies Rhodri, pulling me to him. He tucks me under his arm, then struggles to turn the pages. I wriggle up the pillows so I can kiss his cheek, before moving over to my side of the bed where I curl up into the duvet to stay warm.

  Eventually, he switches off the bedside lamp and spoons into me; his arms crisscross over my chest, his long thin legs intertwine with mine. ‘Da nos, cariad,’ he whispers.

  ‘Da nos,’ I reply.

  Many hours later, when Rhodri is asleep, I slip out of his arms and make my way downstairs. It has been weeks since I’ve slept easily until morning. Too many things are troubling me: Jack, and what I should do about Damien, not to mention the guilt of meeting up with Toga.

  Tonight I make a chamomile tea, then flick on the television. As I sit on the big leather armchair, feet tucked under my bottom, watching a crazy documentary about a man who married a donkey, I wonder why I can’t ever do the right thing.

  I should not have met Toga in London because now I feel desolate. I resolve never to email him again. I will delete his number from my phone. Instead I will throw myself into my relationship with Rhodri – it squeaks and jars at the moment because I’m distracted. Then the pangs begin low in my stomach: I yearn for another child, which strikes me as madness, given our circumstances.

  Wearily, and despite the cold, I move to the sofa and lie down. I drape my dressing-gown over myself as a makeshift blanket and form a pillow out of a pile of cushions. I will sleep here until morning.

  Today I should be working from home but I have other plans. After the cold snap of the last few weeks, I have decided that we must sort out the house. It’s freezing, but also the rooms are decorated in exactly the same way as they were when Damien lived here. His presence is embedded in the walls. No wonder I feel so jittery all the time. As I can’t afford to move, we should paint away all of those memories and start anew.

  It’s not right for Jack to live like this so I’ve taken drastic measures. This morning I went secretly to the building society and applied for a home-improvement loan. Then I arranged for double glazing to be fitted, a new kitchen, a new bathroom and, most exciting of all, I’ve found an eco-company that will draught-proof the house for free and install an energy-efficient boiler for free. All this work will be done in time for Christmas, which gives me seven weeks. No problem.

  Or small problem: Rhodri.

  He is seated comfortably with his rooibos tea and peanut-butter-covered rice cakes. He worked a four-hour shift this morning for a homecare agency and is exhausted. It’s past noon. Jack is at school.

  ‘We need to rip the kitchen out this weekend
,’ I say.

  ‘What?’ demands Rhodri.

  ‘The kitchen fitter is coming in twelve days.’

  ‘Pardon?’ he says, this time with eyebrow intonation to match his stormy eyes.

  ‘Double-glazing in two and a half weeks.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘New bathroom suite arrives in ten days.’

  ‘What?’

  Stop saying ‘What?’ and start saying, ‘How wonderful.’ Rhodri has that startled stance, the one that means he wants to run away, and his voice has that don’t-involve-mein-this tone.

  ‘Best of all…’ Rhodri emits a very loud groan ‘… we have a new boiler being fitted, an energy-efficient boiler, and draught-proofing in three weeks!’

  This makes Rhodri smile.

  ‘And even better than that–’

  ‘Stop screeching!’ shouts Rhodri. ‘You’re hurting my ears.’

  ‘Eleanor and my dad are going to spend the whole weekend with us stripping and emptying the kitchen and bathroom.’

  I’ve arranged it all with such ease that I’m starting to think I should apply for a new job with a housing developer rather than working in the woolly arts, in woolly literature, arranging training seminars for independent publishers. For a fleeting moment, I see myself wearing a hard-hat, walkie-talkie in hand, barking orders to a fleet of workmen. Brilliant. I’m brilliant. Hm… Something about Rhodri’s demeanour suggests that he doesn’t consider me brilliant. ‘Don’t do this,’ I say.

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘This. Whenever something’s urgent, you do this.’ In the face of something requiring immediate action, Rhodri backs off. He retreats gently, then quickly. He doesn’t say ‘no’ exactly, but he does become very difficult.