‘And peanut butter?’ Arthur added.
‘Bathroom now,’ I told him. It was as if I was looking down at the boy from a vertiginous height. ‘Teeth, toilet, face,’ I heard my voice say. ‘And clean your glasses.’ Arthur got down obediently and trotted off.
I bent to kiss Vivienne’s head. Her hair was messy, the red growing out leaving a finger-width the same colour as Arthur’s. Also they both had similar greenish eyes. Mother and son. What would my child look like?
‘Sorry about earlier,’ I said.
‘Weirdo!’ She wrinkled her nose and laughed.
❦
‘Dad?’ Arthur was saying. ‘Dad?’
I blinked, disorientated, found we were parked outside the school. I had no memory of the drive at all.
‘Which one, Dad?’
‘What?’
‘Would you rather eat a worm or a dog poo?’ the boy repeated.
The playground, with its red and blue snakes and ladders, its hopscotch squares, was empty of other children.
‘Worm.’
‘Me too.’
I got out of the car and stretched. I opened the door for Arthur, made sure he’d got all his stuff, watched him walk through the playground, dwarfed by his rucksack packed with swimming things, lunch box, reading book – and my heart contracted at the frailty of the boy, my stepson, at his trust in me, at his spindly little legs.
Back in the car, I took the letter from my pocket. I knew already what it would say. It was tempting not to read it at all, not to know for sure. But I had to know. Imagine Nina’s scorn at such ostrich-like behaviour. Taking a deep breath, I slid my finger under the flap, opened and unfolded the paper all in one, and made myself read to the end before I breathed out. Nina was getting married. I’d guessed already from something Mor had said. But still, to see it in her own familiar writing.
I know you’ll be pleased for me Mats, as I was for you. With love always, Nina.
My hands went into fists and I shut my eyes to a wash of red, a shocking surge of jealousy and anger. But these emotions are futile and uncivilised. In any case, who was I angry with? I sat and breathed until it was under my control.
Before I started the car I tore the letter in half, and then in quarters and tore and tore until there was nothing but confetti scattered on my lap, my thighs, the floor.
Vivienne
click
So. Tommy. Sailed through the pregnancy. Mats was with me for the birth. I’d missed a ‘hubby’ as the midwives put it, to ‘hold my hand’ when Arthur was born. On that day, as I writhed about in my hospital bed, I thought about Mr Professor and what he was doing and whether he’d feel some sort of twang in the ether when his son was born. Maybe he’d stop work, look up from his microscope, feeling something. And then shrug, look down, forget it.
Of course he might have hundreds of sprogs. That’s a thought.
click
Anyway, with Mats it was different. Perfect. He booked time off work to come to antenatal classes with me. Actually, it started to really get to me, how the other mums and even the nursing staff played up to this big handsome male in the room. He could have gone on Mastermind about pregnancy and birth, the amount of books he read.
And when it started he left work the moment he got the call. We were booked in for a water birth. While I was being checked, he lit scented candles, rigged up speakers to play some classical stuff I’d once pretended to like. Thomas came quickly, swam out, loads of dark hair plastered down, face red and scrunched as he bobbed to the surface. Mats cut the cord. I couldn’t watch. All eyes in the room went to Mats, bare chested ready for skin-to-skin bonding, holding his tiny, new, wet son, such love in his eyes, I had look away.
click
Thomas is a mini version of Mats; just as Mats is of Jan. Strong Viking genes (the dark version of Viking). He was small at birth but soon piled on weight. A big healthy boy, handsome from the start. He was like a catalogue baby, looks and everything. He slept through the night nearly straight away and as soon as he learnt to smile, smiled and smiled.
So what was wrong?
click
Hate the sound of my own voice. Shouldn’t listen. Don’t listen till you’re ready, Sue said. And you might not ever need to listen. The therapy is in the speaking. Getting it out there. Getting it out where?
click
Sometimes I don’t know if I’m really depressed or if I’m putting it on; bringing it on myself. If mind is matter then my mind is the matter. At first it was normal baby blues, they said, but it didn’t lift. It did the opposite, clamped down like a lid. A toad, the toad squatting over me, damp and warty, blocking out all the light.
It was partly the house’s fault. The toad was waiting when we moved in.
Mats loved Thomas; Arthur loved him; the Brunburgs, who flew over as soon as he was born, loved him; Rita loved him and blablablablablabla. It was easy for them. I don’t know why it was so hard for me, but it seemed as if there was no need, no room for me to love him. He hoovered milk from me until I started on the medication and then he went onto formula with hardly a squeak of protest.
click
If he’d cared it might have helped.
If he’d screamed for me and only me.
click
I’d knitted him a jumper, red and white stripes, nearly killed me. But it wouldn’t go over his head. His big, handsome head.
Apathy, was the word. I couldn’t be bothered with him. Sounds awful. I am trying to be truthful.
Nobody need ever listen.
I need never listen.
It is therapy.
Supposedly.
click
Alis
Geordie is Mr Smith’s friend. I think he is a rich, important man. Maybe he is famous even. He is a man who looks kind, who speaks soft. Marta said he looks like a grandpa or a nice doctor but I know he is a psycho nut.
He likes to hurt girls big time; he liked to hurt me. He sticks things in, not just his prick.
Sometimes it is hard to hide behind your face.
What he did to me, it got worse.
I told Ratman but he was no help, too scared of Mr Smith.
Geordie gets free rein, lassie, Ratman said.
No one to help me.
I did not tell Marta too much, I did not want to scare her.
I should have warned her.
Please God do not let him move onto Marta.
I cannot help her now.
Ratman, Mr Smith, I do not think they could know Geordie would go as far as this. He put something sharp inside me, maybe it was broken bottle, and I am broken and now I bleed and bleed. I think it will stop but when I move it starts again. Blood is a warm thing in the cold.
They put me down here in the cellar. It’s dark and I am alone. I do not like to be alone. I do not like the dark. Please God bring me light.
Mats
Friday evening in the wine bar. After red wine and tapas, most colleagues had gone and I was left with Fergus, and Frank, a consultant from the New York office.
Frank was a big guy in every way: loud, thick-necked, beer-bellied, and Fergus was on a long leash for once, wife and kids away for the weekend. The three of us stood in the crammed and noisy bar, leaning into a high round table. In Norway, I’d rarely drunk like this, as much as this. The three of us pouring it down as if there was something, some kind of answer, that just another glass might help us reach.
Tomorrow was Nina’s wedding day.
‘You’re quiet,’ said Fergus. ‘Surprised you’re allowed out.’ Frank had gone to the ‘john’ as he called it and it became apparent that he’s been doing most of the talking. ‘Everything OK? How’s Viv? How’s the bairn?’ Fergus lit a cigarette, offered one to me. On the next table a crowd of girls screeched with laughter.
‘Thom
as is fine,’ I said, resisting taking the photo from my wallet. He’d already seen it. ‘But Vivienne’s not . . . oh I don’t know.’
‘Getting any sleep?’ Fergus asked.
‘Tom’s a pretty good sleeper.’ I was proud of this. As soon as he’d been weaned from the breast, I let Vivienne sleep and got up at night with him. Though it was tiring, I loved those moments, the most tender of my life, soothing and feeding my son while, it seemed, the rest of the world was asleep. I almost missed those moments when he started sleeping through.
‘You mean you’re getting sleep? Fergus looked at me incredulously. ‘You lucky fucker. Right enough, you look OK.’
‘But Vivienne, she’s . . .’
‘Haven’t had a full night’s sleep for years,’ Fergus spoke through a yawn. ‘It’s a good night if only one of them’s up. Sometimes it’s all fucking four of the wee fuckers.’
‘How was Karen after?’ I asked.
‘Oh you mean that?’ Fergus snorted. ‘Nothing doing. Mind you,’ he added, ‘I’d rather have a good night’s sleep than get my leg over. Never thought I’d hear myself say that!’ He was propping his head on his hand, slurring. ‘But Karen’s away at her mum’s with the kids for three whole nights, the house to myself, peace and fucking quiet.’
‘Nina’s getting married tomorrow.’ I had not meant to say this. I splashed the last of the wine into my glass and swallowed it down. What was the matter with me? I was married, for God’s sake. I had married only months after splitting with Nina. When I told her I was going to marry Vivienne, I hoped she’d change her mind about me, about us. I hoped she’d want to see me, beg me to take her back – but she only sent congratulations. It must have hurt her though. Of course it did. But Nina would never let this show.
How did any of this happen? This life in Edinburgh; it didn’t feel real. It was like a branch line from reality. Real life was back in Oslo with Nina, whom I’d know all my life, loved since I was twenty.
‘Aye?’ Fergus raised his eyebrows, drained his glass. ‘What’s the problem?’
‘No problem.’ I stared at the shiny surface of the table, scattered with ash and salt and drips of wine.
‘Jeez,’ Fergus clutched his head. ‘I’m away home. Get myself on the sofa with a lager and a DVD.’ He paused, swaying. ‘Want to come?’
I shook my head and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Enjoy your sleep.’
‘Aye, if I can remember how to do it.’
Frank came surging through the crowd towards us, with another bottle. ‘You cannot be serious,’ he shouted, as Fergus pulled on his coat. ‘The night is young.’
‘Wish I was, pal,’ said Fergus. ‘See you Monday.’
‘Party pooper,’ Frank remarked to Fergus’ retreating back. He shrugged and grinned. His grin like a teenager’s on his paunchy middle-aged face. ‘We’ll just have to sink this between us.’
‘I need to go too,’ I said. ‘Wife waiting.’
‘Pussy whipped? Jesus, what is it with you Brits?’
‘I’m not a Brit.’
‘Swede then.’
‘Norwegian.’
‘Whoa, Scandi chicks! Blonde and gorgeous, eh? Legs up to here,’ Frank indicated his armpit, ‘that’s how I like them.’ He sloshed out two glasses of wine. I put my hand across the top of my glass, but it was too late and wine splashed over my fingers.
‘You married?’ I asked.
Frank shook his head. ‘Not now.’ Below his pale crew cut his shiny forehead crumpled and his small eyes filled – did they fill? – with tears. Maybe it was just the smoke or maybe just the drink.
‘Wife, Pammie, wanted to do a history class. I paid out, anything to make the little lady happy, I was crazy about her. What do they call it? A fool for love? Then what did she do?’
I shook my head.
‘Took off with her professor, would you believe? Holy shit, I don’t mind admitting I was cut up at first.’ He was silent for a moment, then took a swig of wine, wiped his lips with his fist and there was that grin again. ‘Then the compensations started to kick in, plenty of mercy fucks coming my way. Yessir!’
I looked at my watch.
‘Mighty unfriendly to leave a visitor drinking alone in a strange town.’ Frank pulled a sad clown’s face.
I sighed. ‘A few minutes,’ I said. Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad thing to be late. The rule was that if Vivienne was in bed when I came in, I slept on the sofa. Waiting there ready for me would be the single duvet in a Star Wars cover, with my pillow and bathrobe. Or I could sleep on Thomas’s floor, be right there ready when he stirred.
‘Use my cellphone to check on the little lady?’ Frank took his telephone from his pocket. I turned it over in my hands – I hadn’t got one yet, wasn’t sure if I’d bother.
‘Better go outside,’ Frank said, ‘and don’t forget the area code.’
The wind was whipping icy rain about. I keyed the home number into the phone, imagined it ringing, imagined Vivienne sighing, hauling herself off the sofa, or stretching out across the bed, her grumpy voice. ‘Ye-es?’ she’d say. How much venom she was able to pack into that one word. Venom that was undeserved. I did everything I could for her, for Thomas, of course, for Arthur. What more could I do? I stood with my eyes shut, the wind wet on my face till my cheeks were frozen. There was no point disturbing her. And besides, the phone might wake Thomas. I took a last breath of freshness, swung open the door, shouldered back into the crowd.
Yet another bottle appeared at some time and we were both leaning on the table, conversation about work had veered to sport and back to women. I found myself talking about Nina, about her neck, her hands, her neatness. How she could solve any problem, make everything all right. How she made me feel safe. I hadn’t felt safe since I’d left her, I realized this, and now it made me blink.
‘But hang on, Vivienne’s your wife, right?’ Frank was frowning.
‘Yes.’ I shrugged. ‘I know.’
Frank raised his eyebrows but refrained from comment. He rolled back his cuff to look at the flashy gold face of his watch. He seemed to be taking more from it than just the time. He looked up: ‘Reckon the little lady’ll be asleep now?’
As I nodded, I knew I should have said no, should have said that she never liked to sleep till I was in, that she would be cranky if I was late, that the baby might wake, that I really must go home. Maybe that was the moment of choice?
‘Hey,’ said Frank, grinning like a naughty kid. ‘I know just the thing to cheer you up.’
‘What?’
Frank tapped one side of his nose. ‘Trust your Uncle Frank.’
We went out into a swirl of coldness, a painful fling of hail. Frank, with surprising speed for a man so big and so drunk, leapt forward to intercept a cab. ‘Get in out of this,’ he said, and, hatless, icy pellets scouring my face, I obeyed.
‘You can drop me at the bottom of the hill.’
‘Yeah, yeah.’ Frank leant forward to speak to the driver, then sat back, slapped me so heartily on the leg that it hurt.
‘First,’ he said, ‘a little detour.’
‘I should get home.’
‘You’ve rung Nina.’
‘Vivienne.’
Frank laughed. ‘Whoever. Look, cut yourself a bit of slack, that’s what I say, that’s what I do.’
Squinting through the taxi window, I could see no more than smears of light through the rain, coming so hard the windscreen wipers could only just cope. It was not the direction of home though. Cut yourself a bit of slack. What does that mean? Something like a bubble travelled in my blood, a giggle; here was I, half abducted, prevented from going home when home was – in any case – somewhere I really didn’t want to be. I was almost enjoying the unaccustomed feeling of helplessness. Of course it was not real helplessness. I could insist on the taxi stopping and get out whene
ver I wanted.
Yes, I could have.
But then we’d reached our destination. Frank paid the driver and we stepped out into the pelting rain. We were in a narrow cobbled street shining, tenements towering on each side. There was the dim throb of music from somewhere and the sound of water cascading from a broken gutter. The windows of the corner building we stood in front of glowed pink. Over the door was a red neon sign: Massage City.
Still I could have walked away. If I had turned my back and gone home, so much would have been so different.
Why didn’t I walk?
❦
Frank pressed his finger against the bell, the door opened with a jangle and a skinny, long-haired boy stood there.
‘You wish massage?’
‘You betcha,’ said Frank. He grabbed my arm and propelled me into a reception area with a pile of towels on a counter, and a list of therapeutic massage treatments – Swedish, Sports, Shiatsu.
‘This kind of massage?’ asked the boy.
Frank just laughed. The boy led us through a hall and into a lounge, hot and airless and thick with the smell of scented oil and incense. It was like a sleazy dentist’s waiting room. Gold and pink fabric smothered everything that could be smothered. Pink shaded lamps cast light on soft chairs and sofas, a pile of magazines on a low table. High on a wall in one corner a silent TV showed a Western and Sinatra’s voice came from a speaker.
‘My treat.’ Pink light flashed on Frank’s teeth.
The boy indicated that we should sit. He was wearing a skimpy, muscle-revealing vest, loose grey sweat pants and his long-toed feet were bare.
‘Which way you want?’ he said.
‘The usual,’ Frank said. We had sat down on the same sofa, too close, and he nudged me in the ribs. ‘Assuming you don’t want a change of scene?’
The Squeeze Page 6