William's Progress

by Matt Rudd

  Fifth, I am so pathetic that I felt honoured to be handed my old ‘Good enough to eat?’ column back for one month only. Until I discovered it was Whiskas Fisherman’s Choice. I always hated the fish ones. At least with rabbit I could pretend it was bolognaise.

  Sixth, I had to try it a second time because I wasn’t paying attention the first time.

  Seventh, I e-mailed Andy to ask if we could talk and he didn’t reply.

  Eighth, due to the wet weather, all the trains are completely and utterly not working.

  Ninth, South-East Today has announced a £10,000 reward for information leading to the prosecution of the cat murderer. It is a record amount, and although the donor remains anonymous, it is thought to be an eccentric local millionaire who is as appalled as South-East Today is pretending to be at the terrible spate of murders. Can two be a spate? Can cats be murdered? Honestly.

  Tenth, when I finally get home, Alex calls to say he has had another tiff with Geoff and wants advice on how to be more assertive when it comes to deciding who does which household chores.

  HOW TO WIN THE HOUSEHOLD CHORES BATTLE

  The divvying up of chores is like picking a playground football team, except that it’s more complicated and fraught with greater danger. You don’t want to get left with Fatty Jenkins (or, in this case, the washing up), but letting on that fact is a mistake. You need to give the impression that Fatty is someone you really want on your team.

  Start by taking on a chore you like and they hate but pretend you don’t like it (‘I’ll put out the rubbish, darling, even though I hate it’). Then allow them to make two choices by way of compensation. As long as you have been ambiguous about your feelings towards Fatty, there is now every chance that they will pick him. Continue in this way until Fatty has been picked.

  Note: if you have always been anti-Fatty, you will either get Fatty or you’ll have to pay dearly to avoid Fatty (we’re talking pairing socks, unloading the dishwasher and being in charge of vacuum cleaner bag resupply combined).

  Finally, go for jobs that are unpleasant but rare rather than bearable but daily. Leaf-sweeping is good because it’s seasonal. Ditto cleaning out the shed. Hoovering, less so.

  ‘So to not get Fatty, I need to clean out the shed?’ asks Alex, wide-eyed, even though we’re on the phone.

  ‘Precisely. You learn fast, my boy.’

  Tuesday 15 October

  ‘Hellooooo, officer. I notice there’s a £10,000 reward for information leading to the killer of those poor weeee cats.’ My voice is trembling, but I’m pretty sure my Scottish accent is convincing.

  ‘Yes, who’s speaking?’

  ‘I dinne wanteh sey yit, but what would constitute…information?’

  ‘Listen, mate, we have a murder investigation in the full glare of the media spotlight here. I haven’t got time for prank callers.’

  And he hung up. Idiot. How does he know I don’t have relevant information?

  Friday 18 October

  Andy wasn’t ignoring me. He was in the Dominican Republic. But he’s back now, and now he is ignoring me.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry. You were right. I was obviously trying to make my own life more exciting by inventing some sort of frisson with Saskia and her new breasts. But it was entirely subconscious, I promise.’

  ‘They are good breasts.’

  ‘Yes, they are – and I’m happy for you and her and, ummm, them.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. Really.’

  ‘Okay, well fine. I know some people find it hard to understand Saskia. Other women, especially.’

  ‘Isabel likes Saskia. She thinks we all need to start getting on. Which is why we’d like to throw an engagement party for you.’

  ‘You would?’

  ‘Yes, we would.’

  ‘That’s amazing. Does it have to be in your village?’

  ‘No. Do you need some more aloe vera?’

  All sorted, and we didn’t even have to hug.

  Saturday 19 October

  ‘I’ve been doing the budget – and I can’t work out how we’re spending so much.’ This is the problem with going camping with other people. Teresa spent the time she wasn’t showing off about her well-routined child showing off about her tight control of the family purse strings. Yes, they earned a lot of money. Yes, they could afford a tent that was a house and a Thule roof box to put it in. But, no, this didn’t mean they were going to waste money. So now Isabel has become a mini-Teresa.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve been doing the budgets, and all our money seems to be vanishing. You’re transferring money to your account, but all the bills are still coming out of the joint account. I thought you said the transfers were for the bills?’

  She’s on to me. She’s going to follow the trail to the £8,000 gambling debt. Don’t panic. Think. Think of an excuse. Think quickly, though, because if you don’t, she’ll leave and so will Jacob. And there will be no one to monitor him. And he’ll be left with pens in his mouth at the tops of staircases, on the brink of tragic toddler death. And a full and balanced understanding of the whys and with-whats of sexual reproduction. Think. Stop panicking. THINK!

  ‘Darling?’ says Isabel because I’ve been trying to think for several seconds now.

  ‘Yes?’ Don’t say yes. Answer the question.

  ‘Where’s all the money going?’

  And then I stopped panicking and said, ‘I must have got in a muddle. I’ve got loads in my account. I’ll put it back over to the joint account on Monday. Shall we go to that soft-play centre Teresa was going on about this afternoon?’

  Brilliant. Ish.

  Why is it that every time I change the subject, I change it to something else I don’t want to talk about? Like going to a soft-play centre. Of course Isabel didn’t want to go. Of course it would be a nice idea for Jacob and me to spend some quality time together. Of course I’m now partially trapped in a padded cylinder four storeys up with snotty toddlers throwing not-that-padded balls at my head.

  Jacob’s eyes are on stalks, though. He can’t quite believe the world can be this much fun – and I can’t quite believe how wonderful it is to be in a world where pretty much everything is quite padded. If only our house were like this. And then a child who looks like he’s been raised entirely on Happy Meals pushes Jacob off a padded stool and into a ball pit. Not counting birth, teething, the time he fell down the stairs and the time we all got Spanish flu in Devon, this is the first time my son has been exposed to the cruelties of the world. He isn’t hurt, he’s just shocked. He looks up at me from the pit of balls and tries to smile, but his lip is wobbling. And then he starts to cry.

  The Happy Meal child sniggers. He’s at least four years old, and he shouldn’t even be in the Baby Zone. I feel cold rage. He is only four, but he’s hurt my son. As he comes around again for another run at the obstacles he’s far too big for, I stick out my foot. He flies into the padded wall, jarring himself on a rope ladder on the way down.

  ‘That man tripped me!’ he shouts. ‘THAT MAN TRIPPED ME!’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’ Mums are beginning to look up from their Grazias.

  ‘Yes, you did. You tripped me, you bastard.’

  ‘That’s no way to—’

  ‘You tripped me. I’m going to get my dad on you.’

  Only then did I notice a large bald man with tattoos on his face ordering his morning pint of lager from the coffee kiosk. I decided there and then that Jacob had had enough stimulation for one day and beat a hasty retreat.

  Sunday 20 October

  Another twelve minutes off triathlon time personal best. Andy is no longer patently bored going along at my pace. I think I might even be getting a six-pack. I think I might even subscribe to Men’s Health. I could become one of those thirty-something fell runners you see in North Face ads. A man who thinks nothing of running a marathon in the snow across a mountain, possibly being chased by a helicopter – and all before breakfast. A breakfast of healthy thin
gs like muesli and carrot juice and cabbage and egg yolks.

  Isabel isn’t sure. She thinks the six-pack might be a little roll of fat that dips a bit in the middle, creating the momentary illusion of a four-pack.

  Monday 21 October

  No sleep at all last night, and not for any exciting reasons. Jacob had a temperature. I had to do thirteen laps of the block to get him to sleep. So I was not in a good mood even before I got to work and found that Janice had taken all the jokes out of my cat food column. It now sounds like (a) I love cat food and (b) I take this column really, really seriously. As if readers think it’s normal for someone to eat cat food. Janice never did this when it used to be my column.

  ‘You never used to do this when it used to be my column.’

  ‘We’ve found that the readers prefer a more serious approach to the subject,’ she replied pompously.

  ‘Nonsense.’

  ‘Not nonsense.’ And she threw a bundle of letters, most of them signed by readers pretending to be their cats (scrawly marks, drawings of paws, etc.), saying how delighted they are that it’s not just them who loves the taste of cat food.

  I have to get out of this job.

  On the plus side, just, Alex says we can have Andy and Saskia’s engagement party at his pretentious Moroccan-style pied-à-terre. And for the first time in my life, I am pleased that Alex exists.

  Tuesday 22 October

  Another night without a single wink of sleep. Isabel says Jacob is teething again. Every time she says this, I feel better. Of course it’s teething, that’s what’s wrong. It’s not leukaemia or rubella or tuberculosis or some as yet undetected psychosomatic issue that will affect my child for the rest of his shortened life. It’s just a tooth. But then you expect a tooth. You need a tooth. For all the crying and screaming and the miserable, desperate looks your poor suffering child is giving you, surely a tooth, an actual tooth, is not too much to ask? And we haven’t had a tooth, not since Isabel first suggested teething in April.

  ‘It’s not teething. I think it’s serious.’

  ‘It is teething. Look, his cheeks are red.’

  So at 4 a.m., I type ‘red cheeks’, ‘pain’ and ‘temperature’ on a website offering to diagnose illnesses. It says it’s teething. You can never believe anything the internet tells you.

  Wednesday 23 October

  So tired it hurts. Jacob, having slept all day, wakes up fourteen seconds after I step in from work.

  ‘How is he?’ I ask half anxiously, one-quarter self-interestedly, one-eighth desperately and another eighth hysterically. And Jacob answers for himself by giving me a pained smile and then bursting into tears.

  ‘It’s worse in the evenings,’ says Isabel unhelpfully. And so for a third night, we have a crying, grumpy, tetchy, impossible-to-console baby on our hands. ‘It’s definitely a tooth. Look how swollen his gums are.’

  ‘I think we should take him to hospital,’ I reply. ‘This can’t be normal. This cannot be the normal way people get teeth. Someone would have invented something to stop it.’

  ‘We’re not going to hospital. I’m not going to spend all night waiting in A&E with a sick child.’

  ‘Well, you’re not going to go when he’s fine, are you?’

  ‘He is fine. Mum looked at him this morning. He’s teething.’

  ‘She’s a retired doctor. Shouldn’t we get a current one? There may be new diseases she doesn’t even know about.’

  ‘Stop it. You’re not helping.’

  And I stop it because I’m not.

  Thursday 24 October

  He finally fell asleep at 5 a.m., the poor sausage. And then he woke at 7 a.m. and his cheeks weren’t red any more. He looked at us both. We looked at him, anxiously, the epitome of panicky first-time parents. He smiled and we smiled back because there it was: a tooth.

  ‘I told you he was teething.’

  ‘I can’t believe we have to go through this nineteen more times.’

  I can’t remember how I got to work. I can’t remember what happened at work. I can’t remember coming home, but I can remember going to bed. At 8 p.m. Bliss.

  Saturday 26 October

  Both sets of parents over for lunch. Both of them. Why do we do this? Why not separate them? Divide and rule.

  Isabel’s mum: ‘Hello, my darlinks. It’s been such a long time since we’ve come over for a proper lunch. And you’ve cooked? My goodness, we were expecting a cold collation.’

  My mum: ‘You’ve cooked? How wonderful.’

  Isabel’s dad: ‘Of course they’ve cooked. It’s lunch, isn’t it? They wouldn’t have us round here for sandwiches. Just because they’ve got a child, it doesn’t mean the world has to stop.’

  My dad: ‘Too right. Lunch is lunch. All this fuss these days over babies. It’s a wonder anyone eats. I see the builders have done a good job of getting rid of that ridiculous bathroom.’

  Isabel and I are in the kitchen arguing over which set of parents is more incendiary when the doorbell rings.

  ‘Afternoon, Mr Walker.’

  ‘Hello, officer. It’s not really a good time, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Oh, it isn’t, is it?’

  ‘No, it’s not. How’s the investigation going? Found your murderer?’

  ‘Not yet. Not yet. That’s why I’m here. We haven’t enough evidence to proceed further with these investigations.’

  ‘That’s a shame.’

  ‘A shame indeed, sir. But you mark my words, the case is not closed. And I shall be keeping an eye out until we find the offender.’

  ‘You still think it’s me, don’t you? That’s the only possible explanation for you driving half an hour out of your jurisdiction on a Saturday to interrupt my lunch with my family.’

  ‘Bit of a temper, haven’t we, sir?’

  ‘No, I just think it’s a bit rich.’

  ‘A bit rich, sir? I’m only doing my job, sir. Have a good lunch, sir.’

  Isabel’s mum: ‘Was that the police?’

  My mum: ‘Goodness gracious, what did the police want?’

  Isabel’s dad: ‘What have you two been up to?’

  My dad: ‘It’s not drugs, is it? Read an article last week. Mums doing the school run on cocaine.’

  Her dad: ‘Bloody ridiculous. Parents today. What’s wrong with the pub?’

  My dad: ‘Leave the kids in the car. Packet of crisps and some blackcurrant juice. Perfectly happy. Nice pint of bitter for me. Home in time for tea. Never did you any harm. Not like all this class-A-drugs parenting.’

  Sunday 27 October

  Andy has only now decided to mention that we have to raise £600 each to be in the triathlon. He didn’t mention it earlier because he knew I had money problems. But we’re doing the triathlon for Animal Samaritans. He thought it would fit in, what with the magazine I work for and the chickens dying. And those poor murdered cats. I don’t understand how his brain works sometimes.

  ‘So I have to ask everyone I know if they can sponsor me doing something fun for a charity that provides a phone service for suicidal animals?’

  ‘It doesn’t do that. It’s a last-line rescue shelter. It’s where my mum got her chameleon. Twiggy’s the patron.’

  ‘And we can’t do the triathlon unless we raise £600?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘In four weeks?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Monday 28 October

  ‘You still haven’t moved the money from your account to the joint account, darling. It’s going to go overdrawn.’

  ‘Sorry. Just had to pay the deposit for the triathlon.’

  ‘What deposit?’

  ‘Well, it’s a sponsorship thing so I have to raise £600, but Andy forgot to mention it so I’ve put some of it up myself. I’ll get it back.’

  I’m lying about lies I already lied about. This is extreme compound lying. Lying cubed. I arrive at work all flustered and edgy.

  ‘How long are all those boxes going to be there?’ Janice really does have a
knack for getting the little picture.

  ‘I don’t know, Janice. But they’re right over in the corner. They’re miles away from your desk. Is it a problem?’

  ‘It’s only that Dennis is in Birmingham again for the next ten days and I’m going to have to bring my cat in and you know how he gets frightened of cardboard boxes.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Cardboard boxes. They intimidate him.’

  For a moment, I think: Just let it go. You’re still sleep-deprived. You’re stressed. You need to empathise with Janice. She does love her cats. This is Cat World, after all.

  And then I think: No, people need to stop putting cats before humans.

  And then I say, ‘For God’s sake, Janice. It’s only a bloody cat. How can a bloody cat be frightened of a bloody cardboard box? It’s only a bloody cardboard box. It’s not a bucket of water. It’s not a bigger cat. It’s not a cat murderer, is it?’

  I have perhaps overstated my case and Janice is suddenly a bit tearful. ‘When he was a kitten,’ she sniffs, ‘his breeder kept him and the rest of his litter in a cardboard box. Then, one day, when the breeder couldn’t sell them, he chucked the cardboard box in a river. Except the kittens managed to escape when the box hit a log. As the kittens made for the riverbank…’

  She stops to blow her nose.

  ‘…he attacked them with his walking stick, killing them one by one. The RSPCA were on to him, but they got there too late. Too late for all but Snowy. And that’s why he doesn’t like cardboard boxes.’