by Simon Bourke
“It’s Lambeth North, Dad,” said Jonathan, breaking Malcolm’s train of thought.
“So it is. We’d best get off, then.”
The War Museum wasn’t far from the station, so they walked the rest of the way. Malcolm had always been careful to let his son choose his own path in terms of hobbies and activities, but he couldn’t hide his delight when Jonathan began showing an interest in military history. He preferred football to rugby league, had no interest in punk music, and cared not for the works of Alfred Hitchcock, but here was something they could share.
Jonathan spotted the building first, his eyesight keener than his father’s.
“There it is, Dad, look,” he said, pointing as they approached Harmsworth Park. The distinctive structure seemed a mere speck on the horizon to Malcolm, but even from a distance Jonathan could make out its defining features.
“There’s the cannon, Dad. It looks just like the pictures.”
Malcolm squinted. He might have seen something resembling a cannon, but it could just as easily have been a tree.
“Well, come on, lad,” he said. “Let’s get us some culture!”
He broke into a sprint, taking Jonathan by surprise as he dashed across the grass. Jonathan gave chase, grinning as he caught up with him and then passed him within seconds. Some tourists sat on a nearby bench tut-tutted as the boisterous pair legged it through the park and up to the museum entrance. The two Philliskirks didn’t even see them.
19
“How was your day, boys?” asked Margaret, flopping into the booth, laden with shopping bags.
“Brilliant, Mum,” smiled Jonathan, returning to the menu.
Malcolm had hoped for gourmet cuisine at one of London’s finest eateries: exotic seafood, the finest fillets of steak, expensive wine from the finest vineyards in Chile. With the choice of venue left to his fifteen-year old son, that was never going to happen.
“I need carbs, Dad, and protein,” Jonathan had explained as he’d led them into a cosy little Italian restaurant.
It might not have looked much from the outside, or the inside for that matter, but Malcolm was pleasantly surprised by the range of food on offer. It wasn’t the same as that fancy French place he’d spotted down the road, but it would do the job.
“Ready to order, kids?” he asked, flipping the pages of the menu impatiently.
“Give them a chance, love,” protested Margaret. “It’s not often they get to eat out.”
“This place closes in five hours,” he replied, only half-joking.
“I’m ready,” announced Sophie, immediately staring at her brother to see what was holding him up. “Can’t you find anything, son?” asked Malcolm.
“Mmm.”
Sophie fixed her mother with a forlorn look, but was quickly shushed.
Finally, Jonathan put down his menu and, without missing a beat, hailed a waitress and told her exactly what he fancied. Malcolm glanced at his wife, rolling his eyes in faux annoyance. She replicated the gesture, smiling quietly to herself.
Service was prompt, and within ten minutes of ordering the booth containing the Philliskirks was silent, save for the sound of frenzied chewing and occasional, appreciative grunts.
“Slow down, Soph,” her mother pleaded. “You’ll make yourself sick.”
“I can’t, Mum,” she replied between mouthfuls. “It’s too delicious.”
Jonathan looked over at his sister. Her cheeks bulged as her tiny mouth struggled to deal with the volume of food being shoved into it. She looked like a squirrel. He began to giggle. But he must have looked the same, because when she saw him she began to giggle too. Soon they were both bent double, silently chortling away as they fought to keep their mouths closed. It was no use though, every few seconds a piece of chewed-up food flew into the air, unwittingly released by a mouth full to overflowing.
“Kids!” scolded Margaret, scanning the room to see if anyone had noticed. “Stop that!”
This finished them completely. Sophie abandoned all decorum, laying her head flat on the table with her mouth wide open, exposing what food was left, cackling like a witch. Tears were streaming from Jonathan’s eyes, and they looked as if they were about to pop out of his head as he choked down the rest of his food, tried to drink his water and slapped the table in mirth all at the same time. Malcolm chuckled quietly to himself in the corner.
“You two,” he laughed. “Can’t bloody bring you anywhere!”
Even Margaret was smiling now. She stopped caring who was watching them. Let them watch, she thought, we’re allowed to go mad every now and then.
After dessert they cleaned up the table as much as they could, paid and headed out into the warm summer evening.
“What now, kids?” asked Malcolm warily. He wanted nothing more than to return to the hotel, find a seat at the bar and relax for the rest of the night.
“Can we go to see Star Wars, Dad? There’s a cinema just down there,” Jonathan asked, pointing to a multiplex in the distance.
Malcolm sighed. He knew little about the Star Wars movies, but he knew they ran for at least two hours, if not more.
“What do you think?” he asked the women.
Sophie screwed up her nose in doubt. “Would I like it, Jonathan?”
“You’d love it, Soph. It’s got cool aliens and light-sabre battles, and there’s this bloke called Darth Maul whose face is red with black dots ...”
He stopped short; his description wasn’t exactly winning her over.
“... but yeah there’s that. And then there’s this love story between a princess and a handsome knight. And Ewan McGregor – you like him, don’t you?”
Sophie’s eyes lit up at the mention of the actor’s name. “I do like Ewan McGregor. Can we go, Mum, please?”
“I think that’s settled, then,” declared Margaret, linking arms with her two children and heading in the direction of the multiplex. Malcolm trailed behind, calculating the cost of four cinema tickets, four large popcorns and four large Cokes.
20
By the time Darth Maul had been laid to rest and the galaxy had been saved, Malcolm was fifty quid out of pocket and had a numb backside.
“Bloody hell, how long was that?” he asked, stretching his aching joints.
“Not long enough,” smiled Sophie who, against all odds, had loved every minute.
She was the only one; even Jonathan was mildly disappointed. “Not as good as the old ones,” he muttered, when asked what he thought.
Malcolm looked at his watch; it was almost 10 p.m. Dare he ask: “where to next”? All this quality time with the kids was great, but he didn’t half fancy a drink.
They stood outside the cinema, watching the London nightlife pass them by. Malcolm waited for the next suggestion, the next wallet-crunching adventure, but none was forthcoming.
“Can we go back to the hotel now, Mum? I’m wrecked,” said Sophie.
Malcolm had hailed a taxi and ushered them all in before the words had left her mouth.
“Ah, that feels good,” Malcolm said, sinking into the comfy armchair.
“Straight onto the whiskies, eh?” Margaret asked, a hint of disapproval in her voice.
“It’s too late to drink pints now, Marge. I’d be going to the toilet all night.”
“I see. Well, just make sure you don’t overdo it. We’re both going to need a clear head in the morning.”
“Of course not, love. Just a couple to round off the day, that’s all.”
He hadn’t had a drop since the whole Katie thing, hadn’t felt the need to; but they were away on a break, so he could surely indulge himself a little.
“Well, if you’re having one of those, then I’m getting something too,” his wife announced, making for the bar. She returned seconds later with a hearty-looking glass of white wine and settled back into her seat.
“Clear head for the morning, Marge, remember?”
“Hmph,” she said, sipping on her Pinot Grigio.
They allowed themselves to relax. Just a little nightcap before bed, that was all. In no time at all, however, Malcolm was on his fourth whisky, greedily taking advantage of the hotel bar’s late licence. Margaret was in no position to condemn him; in the same amount of time she’d worked her way through the equivalent of a bottle of wine. They conveniently forgot about their early start – they’d earned this, let the morning look after itself. After all, how often did they get time together like this, with no kids, no work and no distractions? Rarely, if ever.
They sat and talked, talked properly, for the first time in months. Yes, they spoke every day but brief discourses over dinner and hurried exchanges in the morning didn’t really count; but now, with none of life’s stresses to occupy their minds, they were like a pair of old friends reunited. They told each other what was happening in their lives; the boring stuff, the minutiae, the details which there wasn’t usually time for.
Margaret told him about the trouble she’d been having with the neighbour’s cat, who kept shitting in her garden. Instead of just nodding agreeably, he actually listened. When that story came to an end she started another, and another and then another. None of them would ever make the front page, but this was his wife’s life and it was important that he took an interest. She became quite animated in the telling of these stories. Her eyebrows danced across her forehead, the eyes beneath darkening with rage, then lighting up during a humorous passage before finally narrowing with murderous intent as she threatened to string up that cat by its unmentionables. Her voice pitched all the way up to falsetto as she railed against the injustice of it all, and plunged back down to baritone when she sheepishly admitting to misdemeanours on her part. She could make the contents of a DIY catalogue seem interesting when she was in this kind of form.
“I love you, Margie.”
She stared at him in surprise, the tale of the missing wheelie-bin cut short.
“Oh, Malcolm Philliskirk! Getting all romantic, are we?”
Her teasing spoiled the moment somewhat, but she quickly redeemed herself.
“I love you too, Malcolm,” she said, leaning over and taking his hand in hers.
She had a twinkle in her eye, a look of devilment which Malcolm hadn’t seen in quite some time. He knew precisely what it meant; the tingling in his groin confirmed it. They sat there, holding hands and gazing into each other’s eyes like a pair of love-struck teenagers. She was his world, all he had ever wanted; so why had he done what he’d done? Why had he been so stupid? He’d almost forgotten about his betrayal, had pushed it to the back of his mind. But now, sitting here, cosying-up to his wife, all he felt was guilt: sickening, stomach-churning guilt. Luckily for him, she didn’t seem to notice. She went on staring into his eyes, utterly devoted to her one-and-only. He needed another drink, something to take the edge off.
He broke the silence, hastily removing his hand from hers. “Another drink, love?”
“All right,” she said passively.
He stood at the bar watching the barman pour his drink, silently urging him to hurry up. As soon as it was presented to him he drained it and asked for another, making sure his wife still had her back to them. He took his drink, the second one, back to their table, along with her wine. Marge was resting in her chair, observing him.
“Twenty years, Malc, and still as strong as ever.”
He sipped nervously from his drink, afraid to meet her eye.
“And we’ll get through this too, Malc.”
Get through what? How had she figured it out?
No, she was referring to Jonathan and his calls to the adoption agency, of course. Paranoia had taken hold now. He just wanted to finish his drink and get to bed before things got any worse.
But Margaret had no intention of hitting the hay just yet. She had passed the frisky phase and was now ready to party.
“Is there any music in here?” she asked loudly, turning her head this way and that as if searching for a big red sign with the word MUSIC emblazoned across it.
Malcolm remembered the last time they’d had a weekend away, and how she’d commandeered the jukebox at the little country pub they’d found themselves in. She’d pleaded with the owner to crank it up as loud as it would go, and then played ‘Madonna’s Greatest Hits’ on a loop for the rest of the evening. Rather than being offended, the locals seemed content to play up to the newcomers, many of them joining her on the dance floor she’d created by rearranging a few tables and chairs. She didn’t let her hair down very often, but when she did she really went for it.
“Come on Malc, drink up,” she instructed.
He dutifully did as he was told. “Want another?” he asked.
“I certainly do,” she replied, scanning the room once more. “And Malc?”
“Yeah?”
“Ask the barman to put on some music, will you? It’s dead in here.”
He returned less than a minute later with a double whisky for himself and another glass of wine for his wife. She looked at him accusingly. Where was her music?
“Oh,” he replied dully. “The barman said they can’t play music this late ‘cos most of the patrons are in bed.”
“Do you think we could sneak out to a disco?” she inquired hopefully.
“Don’t be silly, Marge, we’re too old for discos. I don’t even think they call them discos anymore.”
“Oh, well,” she sighed, taking a large gulp from her drink. “We’ll just have to make our own entertainment.”
The sparkle in her eye had returned. “How about finishing these drinks upstairs?” she asked suggestively.
“I think I’ll stay on a while here, Marge.”
“Malcolm! How about FINISHING THESE DRINKS UPSTAIRS?”
“I’d rather not, love.”
His words stung Margaret. She turned away from him, her ardour dampened.
“Oh, Marge, I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Hmph.”
“Come on, Margie, let’s go up,” he said, far too resignedly.
“I’m fine here, thank you very much.”
He withdrew, fearing that to continue would be to make things worse. He returned to his drink, allowing it to numb his senses and dull his emotions. He suddenly felt very drunk. It wasn’t an unpleasant feeling. He resolved to continue his drinking first thing in the morning.
When she turned to face him he was shocked to see tears in her eyes.
“Am I not attractive any more, Malc? Is that it?”
“It’s not that at all, Marge, not at all,” he replied, vigorously shaking his head.
“I know I’m not what I once was, but I keep my weight down and dress nicely. Don’t I? Don’t I?”
“You do, Marge, you do. It’s not that. It’s got nothing to do with that.”
“Well, what is it, then?”
He wavered, on the brink now.
“What is it, Malcolm?”
This moment could define the rest of his life, for good or bad.
“Malcolm?
He looked at his wife and made his decision. He chose liberation, to unload his burden and to face up to a future of uncertainty. “I’ve got something to tell you, Marge.”
She leaned forward in her seat.
“It’s bad, Marge, really bad.”
All at once dozens of possibilities flashed through her mind, each one worse than the last.
“How bad?”
“Bad,” he repeated, putting his head into his hands.
Now she was worried, scared even. He was dying, that was it; he had cancer, an incurable disease, mere months to live. This would be their last weekend together.
“What is it, Malcolm?”
He laug
hed bitterly. “I’m such a piece of shit.”
“Malcolm, you’re not making any sense. Please tell me what’s the matter.”
He looked at her, humbled by her concern, knowing that she would never look at him like that again. When he told her what he’d done, there would be no more kindness, no more looks of concern.
“It happened at work,” he said calmly. “There was a new girl, a young girl. We became friendly; I was helping her to settle in.” He paused.
If he was going to own up, he should do it properly.
“No, it was more than that. I fancied her and took an interest because I wanted to be near her. I knew what I was doing was wrong but I couldn’t help myself. I don’t know what I expected to happen, but the possibility that something might, excited me...”
Margaret looked at him, dumbstruck. This man she’d loved and given her life to had become a complete stranger.
“And then what?” she asked.
Malcolm continued, barely pausing for breath, on autopilot.
“I made a pass at her. No, it was more than a pass. One morning, I came in early and found her crying in the ladies’. I brought her into my office for a cup of tea to calm her down. While I was consoling her I put my hand on her knee, on her thigh, and then between her legs. She screamed in protest and stormed out of my office, even more upset than she’d been to start with.”
He gazed at his wife, acutely aware that he was looking at someone whose entire world had fallen apart.
“I wish there were an answer, Marge, a simple explanation, but there’s not. I thought of everything I was risking and went ahead and did it anyway.”
She recoiled in horror. “Who are you? What kind of person are you? Who would do such a thing?” Lost for words, she rose from her seat, backing away from him as if he were a leper.
“Please don’t take the kids away from me, Marge.”
She didn’t hear his words, couldn’t have heard them even if she’d wanted to. It was all she could do to pick up her handbag and make her way to the lift. She didn’t look back; she didn’t want to see him, not ever again. The door to the lift opened and she got in. There was no one else inside. She waited for it to move, but nothing happened; the doors remained open. She froze. What if he came after her? What if that man tried to join her in the lift? She looked at the doors, willing them to close but they weren’t budging. She had to press a button, it didn’t matter which one. There was a round one with a number on it, she jabbed at it furiously; the door closed and she began to move upwards. A wave of relief rushed over her. She was safe now. She was away from that man; away from that sick, twisted man.