There’s an enormous cartoon sketch featuring a meat-eater and a cow, and a story about how meat-eaters are bad, bad murderers. I hide my red-leather gloves in my red-leather bag, and hope that no one will notice my red-leather shoes. I’m wearing a cardigan from the high street. I would have felt less exposed if I’d turned up naked.
Rhodri and Jack have disappeared. I scan the warehouse for them and locate Rhodri on a chair, scribbling high up on a stone pillar. What’s that I hear? It can’t be. It is. Someone in the far corner is beating a tambourine. Please don’t let this be true. Then the chanting begins. Chanting and yoga on a Saturday night in Hulme.
I will not give up. I’m going to participate if it kills me. I can’t say I don’t like this world if I’ve never tried to enter it. I wander to another corner to spy on a group of women chatting on a couple of battered sofas. Please don’t be knitting, I think. But they are finger-knitting woolly hats. They’re wearing purple, have messy hair, facial piercings and are finger-knitting woolly hats.
A couple of adults race past me on a Little Tykes coupé car. Get off the toddler truck, I want to yell. You’re grownups!
I take a deep breath and sit down with the ladies. I pick up a wire hanger, and some orange wool. ‘Have you any feathers for a dreamcatcher?’ I ask the group.
‘Well, we don’t,’ one woman answers kindly, ‘because these are vegan dreamcatchers. But I can show you how to make a tassel out of wool?’
But wool comes from an animal. Are these women crazy? WOOL comes from an ANIMAL.
The chanting in the corner is getting on my nerves and that tambourine needs whacking over someone’s head. I catch sight of a thin man standing on a mat spinning glass balls in one hand. The walls are hung with enormous photographic prints of protests: it would fair to say that these people are not the greatest fans of the British police force.
I make my excuses and dash to the toilet. A man follows me in to have a conversation about how they plumbed in the water supply. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, ‘but can we finish this later? I really need to wee.’ I close the door on him. The toilet floor is disgusting. My patent ballet pumps are soaked in urine.
When I eventually find Rhodri, he and Jack are having great fun dipping their hands into paint and leaving prints on a long strip of rolled-out wallpaper. ‘I need to leave now,’ I say
‘Not yet,’ replies Rhodri. ‘In a while.’
‘I need to leave now.’
‘You’re so racist against hippies.’ Jack grunts, after we leave the warehouse. ‘I was having a good time.’
We wait for the tram at G-Mex. The Hilton Hotel towers above us. That’s where I want to be, I think, in the bar up there, sipping cocktails and looking out across the city, loving life and looking forward to the future.
It’s Sunday afternoon and Rhodri is sitting on the big leather armchair, sewing a sock for his scythe. He uses it on the allotment because fuel-powered strimmers pollute the environment.
I say, ‘I’m going to get new curtains for winter. Thick ones for the bedroom. We didn’t replace the window last year. It’s draughty now.’
Rhodri looks up. ‘I’ll find you a sewing machine and you can run some up. You could get the material from a charity shop.’
‘Rhodri, love, I don’t have any free time to make curtains.’
‘I don’t agree with you buying new things for the house.’
I love this man, he’s a good man, but I’m starting to think that we’re never going to work. I feel like I can’t do ‘us’ any more. I’m so weary with the pressure to be eco-perfect that I constantly feel a failure. It’s my house, I think. It’s my house. And I don’t even have the liberty to decide to buy curtains or choose which washing powder I want to use.
Then, just when things seem like they can’t get any worse, Toga calls again. And Morton texts to say that he’ll be passing through Manchester tomorrow. I make arrangements to meet Morton for an hour in a bar on Canal Street, then wave him off at the station when he gets on his train to London.
26
During the week, Rhodri took up a one-man crusade at a shopping mall handing out homemade leaflets on climate change. If only he’d use his free time to look for more gardening work, I wouldn’t feel like my innards are about to fall out. Today I received an email from the magazine project explaining that at the end of the month there will be no freelance opportunities, so I’ll lose my main source of income. By the time the bills come in during November, we’ll be on red alert. Oh, shit. What if Jack and I end up homeless again?
I’m watching Coronation Street but not really concentrating because I’m panic-stricken. Jack is running around the garden trying to catch the rabbits. We need a new hutch. They’re eating their way out of that one.
‘Come into the hallway,’ says Rhodri. As I’m functioning on autopilot, I oblige.
‘Sit down.’ He points to a step.
‘Why are we whispering on the stairs?’
‘The telephone might be tapped.’
‘What would it be tapped for? How can they hear when we’re not even on the phone?’
‘They just might. Look, I’m staying over at Fiona’s tonight.’
‘Fiona? That’s the name you called in your sleep. You can’t just tell me you’re going to stay the night at this woman’s house and then leave.’
‘It’s not like that. Other people will be there.’
What is it, a free-love house? ‘What’s going on?’
‘I can’t tell you.’
‘I’m your girlfriend, of course you can tell me.’
‘You’ll find out tomorrow. We’re going to be involved in some direct action.’
‘Rhodri, please think about this. Don’t get arrested. How will we cope if you go to prison?’
‘It’s a risk I’m prepared to take. Climate change is a very real threat.’
‘I know that. But what about our world?’ If Rhodri goes to prison, I may just fall apart. On the other hand, I’ll have plenty in common with my neighbours, whose boyfriends are in and out of clink. ‘What is it you’re going to do?’
‘I can’t tell you.’ Rhodri lifts up his bag and swings it on to his shoulders, then zips up his waterproof, kisses my cheek and heads off.
He thinks I’m one of them, doesn’t he? The people opposing his beliefs. The wrongdoers. The enemy.
The next morning I think, Sod it. It’s absolutely freezing and Rhodri isn’t around so we’ll drive to school rather than cycle. We come to an abrupt stop in a traffic jam. Half an hour later we’ve moved three centimetres. If only we’d cycled, we’d have been there by now. Jack fiddles with the knob on the radio. At nine o’clock the news begins with a report that ‘A group of protesters are blockading domestic flights at Manchester Airport and have locked themselves together at the check-in desks.’
‘I bet that’s Rhodri!’ says Jack.
‘I bet it is.’ I laugh.
At work I search the Internet for more information.
Rhodri has been locked to Fiona and the other protesters for hours. Already I’m jealous – it’s been months since he used handcuffs on me.
On my coffee break, I call Zelda. ‘That Fiona may not be as hot as you,’ she says, ‘but they have common ground, and before you know it, ethics will win the day.’
By lunchtime Rhodri’s face is on newsreels and websites. It’s just after six o’clock when my father calls. ‘We’ve just seen Rhodri on ITV,’ he says. ‘I’d recognize that bearded face anywhere.’
Thankfully, Rhodri wasn’t arrested. Instead, due to all the media coverage, he’s something of a regional celebrity. The next evening we sit in Cornerhouse drinking wine with Zelda – she saw Rhodri on the news too and lavishes praise on him.
‘I’m very proud of you,’ I say to Rhodri, ‘and what you do. But I don’t agree with it. By targeting the budget airlines you’re creating problems for the poor. Pick on the rich. Protest against them. Don’t alienate people who can’t afford to travel any
other way.’
By the time we head out onto Oxford Road I’m drunk, and Rhodri and I are arguing. I think I’m right; he thinks he’s right. I say, ‘I’m sick of you sneering at me because I’m a single mother.’
He says, ‘I’ve never sneered at you. How can you say that?’
I say: ‘You and your middle-class ways. Living poor like this is a choice for you. You can choose not to live like this. But for me and Jack it isn’t a choice. I didn’t struggle through university when I was homeless in that refuge to spend my life on a council estate. I want more, Rhodri.’
‘How can you say I sneered at you for being a single mother?’ he says again. ‘When I moved to Manchester to be with you and Jack?’
‘I think you have. Nothing I do is ever good enough. You talk to me as though I’m stupid. Everything I do is wrong. And I’m sick of it.’
Rhodri says, ‘You can make your own way home.’ He leaves me opposite the Palace Theatre and heads off in the opposite direction to catch a bus.
I arrive back at the house before Rhodri and lock the door behind me. I grab all his clothes from the wardrobe and throw them on to the living-room floor. Then I go upstairs to lie on the bed and wait for him to return so that we can finish the argument.
By the time I realize I’ve been asleep it’s too late. It’s dawn. I left the key in the door all night and Rhodri couldn’t get into the house. There’s no sign of him. I take the key out of the door and head back to bed. He has a pager for work so I call it. I have to send him my apologies through a stranger.
Approximately five a.m.
Man: Can I take your message?
Me: Where are you? Can you come back now?
Man: So that’s ‘Where are you? Can you come back now?’
Me: That’s correct.
Approximately five forty-five a.m.
Man: Can I take your message, please?
Me: I really am very sorry. Call me.
Man: So that’s ‘I really am very sorry. Call me’?
Me: That’s correct.
Approximately six thirty a.m.
Man: Can I take your message?
Me: I am very, very sorry. Call me, please.
Man: So that’s ‘I am very, very sorry. Call me, please’?
Me: That’s correct.
Approximately ten thirty a.m.
Woman: Can I take your message?
Me: I am very, very sorry. It was a petulant prank that went too far. Please call me. Please.
Woman: So that’s ‘I am very, very sorry. It was a petulant prank that went too far. Please call me. Please’?
Me: That’s correct.
Rhodri returns just after lunchtime. ‘Hello,’ he says gruffly. I know he’s annoyed with me for locking him out of the house, which was wrong, but then I fell asleep and it ended up being more wrong than I intended because he had to sleep in the shed for five hours.
I leap into my apology straight away but Rhodri won’t forgive me.
‘I genuinely am really very sorry,’ I say, over and over again, but Rhodri just shakes his head.
He gathers his things. ‘I’m going to stay with my friend Aiden for a few days. I’ll speak with you next week.’
*
Alone throughout the day, minus the eco-warrior, my thoughts are: I didn’t see that coming. (What am I? Stupid?) Followed by: I’m slicing up steak in my kitchen. In the house I own. I don’t feel guilty. My God, I feel free. This is brilliant! Then: There’s nothing for it but to be like Rhodri. Love is love, and if that’s what it takes to keep my man, I won’t wash and I’ll go hippie. I slice more steak with a shiny sharp knife. Heaven above, it looks delicious. What I need is an omnivorous man: a man who loves meat and would roast a leg of lamb for me with his strong hands and then serve it up on a rosemary-scented platter.
I plop handfuls of carrots into a saucepan. I need to keep quiet and agree with Rhodri on everything. Conflict is not a girl’s best friend. I add some petits pois, also known as peas. I can use beauty products again – without the lecture. Anti-ageing creams, deodorant, perfume, yes, perfume. I’ll buy myself a bottle of the most fake-smelling expensive concoction I can get my hands on. And bath salts. And make-up!
I slide Yorkshire puddings into the oven. Jack saunters in. ‘Is there anything I can help you with?’ he asks. Sweet boy. He’s salivating at the thought of a meat and gravy dish.
‘No, thanks, love, you watch Top Gear, if you like,’ I say, closing the kitchen door. If Rhodri were here, Jack would have to watch Top Gear in another room.
I’m so alone! I cannot manage the house on my own! Who will do the composting? I can’t compost!
I stand on my tiptoes to get the plates out of the cupboard: Rhodri usually does this for me. Rhodri is tall. And I, I am small.
I may be small but I can compost. I’m Superwoman and I can compost. I, Superwoman, can achieve anything. I’m going to start that business. I’m going to be a better person. I’m going to succeed.
I look out of the window. It’s almost dark and I’m scared of the dark. Rhodri isn’t coming back. His bike isn’t going to squeak down the path. The gate isn’t going to slam shut. Rhodri is not going to walk back through those patio doors until next week.
On Monday, Rhodri returns with his dirty washing. A tent hangs over the banister. He must have been camping. I head out of the door with Jack and an overnight bag. ‘Where are you going?’ he calls after me.
‘To review a show.’
‘I thought we were going to talk.’
‘We were “going to talk” yesterday.’
‘Where are you staying?’
‘At my mother’s,’ I say, on the brink of tears. ‘You didn’t call all weekend.’
‘You didn’t call me.’
‘You don’t have a phone. I have two.’
‘I have a pager.’
‘I did page.’
‘I didn’t get it.’
‘I can’t talk to you through a pager.’
At home the next evening, Rhodri and I are still barely on speaking terms with one another. I want to say something significant to get our relationship back on track, but I can’t muster the words or the enthusiasm. Then, before I can stop myself, I gabble, ‘I can’t go through another Christmas like last year, I’m dreading it.’
He tells me that he can’t either, and that he still feels the same about climate change. I’d stand a better chance of winning my man over if I was competing against another woman – but as it is me versus an entire planet… After one final debate, I lose.
I say: ‘I can’t enter another New Year like this. I was unhappy in my twenties. In a month’s time I’ll turn thirty. I want my thirties to be happy, and about leading the life I want to live.’ Then I take a deep breath and tell Rhodri that I want us to split up. He needs to move out. He can stay here until he finds somewhere else to live.’
It seems he already has: his friend Aiden has offered him the spare room.
27
I should be trying to save my relationship but it’s no use: I’m absolutely fed up with this life. I’ve avoided speaking to Toga so that I can think clearly about Rhodri. I can’t sleep, and there have been days when I’ve felt too dreary even to walk. If I go on like this I’ll ruin everything. I can stop the meltdown now by begging Rhodri, ‘Please, please can we try again?’ But my heart just isn’t in it. What I need is a cure, so I go in search of holistic healing.
Dr Li, a Chinese herbalist, has his fingers wrapped around my wrist examining my pulse. He looks at his assistant, Mrs Yu, and then at me. He stands up, walks behind my chair and feels for something on my neck. I stick my tongue out for him and he scratches his nose, bemused. He speaks in Chinese to Mrs Yu, who translates: ‘Doctor say is very strange. He say you not ill, but heartbeat is very slow and faint.’
‘Goodness,’ I say, but I’m not at all surprised. My heart feels as if it’s about to stop.
‘He ask: “Have you been ill? Going to toilet okay? No
t constipated?”’
‘Not constipated,’ I reply. Mrs Yu translates this to Dr Li, who studies me more intently. He bends down, bangs my knees and examines my ankles. He attempts to speak English to me: ‘I can help,’ he breathes, ‘but you mast tell me whot problem h’is.’ He speaks again in Chinese to Mrs Yu.
‘Is very important you tell Doctor what is wrong. He cannot help if you do not tell what is wrong.’
‘I think I’m heartbroken,’ I say quietly.
Mrs Yu translates this to Dr Li. He closes his eyes and nods. Again he speaks in Chinese to Mrs Yu. ‘Your partner?’ she asks. Mrs Yu and Dr Li have met Jack and Rhodri many times; they greet us like old friends when we see them. At one point last year we stopped using NHS doctors altogether.
‘Yes, but not just him.’
‘The father of your son?’
‘No.’
Dr Li stares me intently as Mrs Yu translates my monosyllabic answers.
‘Then who?’
‘A man. He doesn’t live near here. I don’t see him often, but… we meet up from time to time and now everything’s in tatters and I feel so sad.’ I wipe tears from my cheek.
‘Does he know?’ asks Mrs Yu. She stretches her hand across the desk and places it over mine.
‘No.’
Dr Li speaks again in Chinese, this time directing his words at me. I try to understand him, but it’s impossible, so I purse my lips gratefully and nod.
‘Doctor say there is no Chinese medicine for broken heart. Doctor say you must tell this man.’
‘I can’t.’
‘You mast tell him,’ says Dr Li, wagging a finger at me. ‘Pulse is very weak. Not good. Not good.’
‘Can’t you give me some of those little balls?’ In the past I’ve been sent home with bags of herby little balls, which work wonders for migraines, skin problems and period pains.
Single Mother on the Verge Page 20