Grandma sat, quiet, her head down. She said nothing.
“What’s he mean, she didn’t wanna live no more?” I stare at her, no tears falling. I don’t believe she’s gone. She can’t have gone. “Like that boy? One that jumped from the bridge?” I asked childishly.
As Warrick and I let ourselves into the house, I realise why Grandma never said anything. She knew what had really happened to Mum and she didn’t want to say. I took their words as oath and decided Mum’d chosen to take her life because Dad was a bastard and didn’t love her enough. I wasn’t enough. I never got told how, why, or when, except my mind conjured up images and probabilities of how, why and when. Given no answers, I made up my own story. I made her a ghost, wishing she’d come back.
“Let’s get inside quickly,” Warrick says, “it’s going to rain, I can feel it in the air.”
The twins wake up hungry so we go straight to the kitchen.
Joe must be home because the alarm didn’t go off so Warrick shouts for Joe, only he doesn’t reply.
“I’ll go see what’s going on,” my husband says, and heads up the stairs.
A few minutes later, I’m listening to Warrick screaming at Joe. A redhead comes flying down the stairs, someone I don’t recognise, and she skulks out of the front door. I pinch my skin and shake my head. All this seems real, but it still feels like a terrible dream. It’s like he wanted to get caught because he knew we’d be around today. How did he think he would get away with this and why is he out of class?
Warrick drags Joe downstairs, absolutely furious. He’s got hold of his son by the back of his collar and Joe’s beetroot-red and on the verge of tears.
Warrick drags a chair screaming out from under the dinner table and forces Joe to sit at the table, ramming him down on the chair. Warrick is really strong even though he doesn’t look it, but he’s really, really strong when he’s in the mood. He beat down our front door once.
He growls under his breath, “You better say sorry to Jules for desecrating her home.”
The babies cry, hearing their father shout so fiercely, and Joe bursts into tears watching his brothers cry. I almost cry but hold it together.
I want to chastise my husband but he’s furious, angry and disappointed and this isn’t my son, it’s his. Joe’s just rebelling because of everything that’s going on. I don’t know where to start.
The children, in their highchairs, have snot bubbling from their noses and tears pouring from their eyes. I quickly fill their beakers and pass them over. The little boys suckle furiously but it’s not the same as a dummy or a teat and they’re still crying as they suck.
I fold my arms and grind out, “I said to Warrick just yesterday that I thought you were already sexually active and here we are. Except, he defended you and told me no. Your dad thought so much better of you.”
“So what? Everyone else is doing it.” Warrick thumps Joe round the head and Joe whelps from the pain.
“Get out of my sight!”
Joe runs away, chasing back upstairs. Warrick is standing alone in a sea of torment, wondering how this could have happened. I dare not touch him, he’s so angry, nibbling furiously on his lip, his fists clenching.
“Please, darling. I know this is hard but not in front of the babies.”
He looks up and into the tearful faces of his little ones and something in him softens. He moves over toward them, standing between their highchairs, and kisses each of their cheeks. Running his hands over their downy heads, he whispers, “Sorry guys but if you do this in the future, you’ll be getting exactly the same treatment.”
My husband has a dark side and I’ve always known it, but now things are getting hard to handle.
What is going on? If I am still dreaming, please wake me the hell up!
“You were right, Jules.”
I shake my head. “He knew we’d be around today. He wants to get caught. Don’t you see?”
“No, I don’t see. All I know is boiling fury. How could he think that getting caught is a good thing?”
“Because the real issue is too much? Like Hetty, remember?”
We both stare one another out, remembering Hetty.
I heat a jar of baby rice in the microwave and put some in two bowls, giving Rick one of them.
We begin feeding the children.
“We all need some time out,” I tell him, knowing what he’s thinking. We still have this other stuff hanging over us, too.
“We’ll send him to Dad’s. He’ll sort him out. He sorted me out, didn’t he?” Warrick manages a laugh and it almost breaks my heart, seeing him so heartbroken. He covers his mouth, shaking his head. “I don’t know what to do.”
“He’s confused. He doesn’t know what’s happening. He’s got two little brothers all of a sudden and he’s feeling left out and lonely. His mother is evil incarnate and we’re all over each other like a rash all the time. He mustn’t feel like he’s got anyone to talk to.”
“You’re right.” He nods, slowly.
“I am. But I’ve taught enough teenagers to know that it’s not easy in the best of circumstances, what with all those hormones, so imagine how he’s feeling. He’s probably surrounded by footballers all having a go and he’s just trying it out, too, even though for him it’s more a cry for help.”
I sit and wonder what else from my dream was real. Am I really a clairvoyant, or am I just good at picking up vibes? Maybe Joe’s behaviour gave me some clue as to his sexual activity and I didn’t want to believe it. I don’t know. He does seem to have been staying out at ‘Shana’s’ a lot lately – which convinces me she was just a cover maybe, or maybe she didn’t put out, so he found someone else and didn’t want to tell us about it.
“You’re right,” Warrick says, rubbing his hand over the back of his neck. “I’m sinking under all this Jules. It’s all too much. Ronnie, now Joe… it’s too much.”
“I know.”
It’s the reminders of the past, it’s Joe, it’s Anna. It’s fatigue from the babies. It’s everything.
“Book yourself an emergency appointment and get yourself signed off with stress. We’ll take a holiday. I think we need one.”
After lunch, the babies become sleepy again so I put them down in the travel cot in the living room while Rick walks round to the doctor’s to get himself signed off. Luckily, we have private healthcare so we can get an appointment just like that.
While he’s gone, Joe returns downstairs, sheepishly lurking round a corner with a big bruise on his forehead where Warrick smacked him.
He sits down quietly at the kitchen table and I make him a sandwich, pour him tea from the pot and put it in front of him. He sees what I’ve done for him and bursts into tears.
“I don’t deserve it!”
I throw my arms around him from behind and hold him tight. “He just loves you so much, Joe, he’s devastated. To him, you’re just his little boy still.”
“But I’m not,” he argues, “it’s less than a year until I’m sixteen and I’m not his little boy. He doesn’t want me to grow up.”
I pull away, kissing his bruise. Sitting down beside him, I warn, “That’s not true. He hates it when you keep things from him. He wants to be here for you but he doesn’t want to push you, either.”
“What?” He looks genuinely confused.
“We’re both worried about you but not because we don’t think you’re a good guy, but because of all the stuff going on with your mum. If it’s getting to you, you can tell us, you know? We won’t bite your head off. In fact, it’s completely understandable if you’re feeling low because it’s all fucked up.”
“It is, it’s all fucked up.” He rubs his eyes, as weary as we are.
“I want to know firstly if you wore a condom and then I want to know if you have been skipping school like this.”
He covers his eyes. “I wore one and I haven’t skipped much, just occasionally, so it never looks suspicious.”
“You forged a sick note?”
“Yeah.”
I grumble. “I could spot a forged one a mile off. You must have shit teachers.”
“Nah, I’m really good at forgery.”
He laughs but there’s something about the word forgery that gets me thinking.
Warrick comes through the door, on his phone. We overhear, “Yeah, sorry Bri. I’m just no good to anyone. I’ll hopefully see you in two weeks’ time.”
Warrick enters the room, unaware Joe’s in here, and he begins to say, “I got some leave. Apparently my blood pressure is sky high–”
He spots Joe and stops talking.
“Oh.”
Joe looks down at the table, saying in a meek voice, “I’m sorry, Dad.”
Rick grits his teeth. “I’m sorry, too. But I’m angry and not good to talk to right now.”
I put gentle pressure on Joe’s wrist and suggest, “We’re going to go away for a bit because your dad is very stressed with work and everything. I’ve had some anxiety issues, too, and we just need to get away. While we’d love for you to come with us, we can’t take you out of school, not in year ten, so we thought you could stay with Granddad until we get back.”
Joe’s face falls, like he’s being booted out of another home and deposited somewhere else. “Just until you get back?”
Warrick hovers over the table, an angry man looming dangerously. Joe’s preparing for another strike. My husband holds his hands on his hips and warns, “Yeah, but if you pull another stunt like you did today, you’ll be staying with Granddad full-time and eating his burnt dinners every night, do you get me?”
Joe puts his head in his hands and mumbles, “I don’t care where I am. So long as I’m not with her.”
“You’re never unwelcome and will never be unwanted here. But we’re all under pressure. Your mother’s condition is difficult for us all to deal with,” I say, resorting to pleading for understanding from everyone involved.
“You’re right, she’s ill,” he agrees, and part of me sees a boy trying to be brave and be a man, while the other part sees a man trying not to want his mother still. I see that same look in Warrick’s eyes sometimes.
“I rang Granddad while I was out and he says it’s fine,” Warrick reveals, “but you’ll have a curfew and he insists on getting you to the school gate everyday.”
“What?” Joe exclaims, but his outburst earns him a look from Warrick. “You didn’t tell him?”
Warrick’s face scrunches up. “Do you think I’m bloody stupid? No! He’d bloody murder you. No! I didn’t tell him. I just said you’ve been playing truant and that Jules and me need a break. He’s gonna be climbing up your arse if you put a foot wrong. Believe me, I’ve been there.”
Joe eats his cold, limp toast and mumbles, “Still better than her gaff.”
“I need a rest,” Rick says, and gestures he’s off upstairs. He can’t deal with Joe when he’s petulant like this.
When Joe’s finished his sandwich and tea, I tell him, “Stay in your room for the rest of the day. I don’t want to see you until you’ve learnt something, okay?”
“Yes, miss,” he says, but fails to hide his sarcasm. I give him the stare and he adds, “Thanks for the tea and sympathy. And sorry, I am sorry.”
“We love you, don’t forget it.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Jules
A week later
We step across the threshold and back into our own house after spending seven days away in the Cotswolds. I booked the cottage last-minute and we spent all our time out walking with the kids strapped to our chests, walking boots on. It was everything we needed.
It’s late evening and we got dinner on the way home so Warrick whispers, “I’ll take them straight up.”
I nod and go into the kitchen, flicking the kettle on. I wish I had a pack of fags. I’d light up and chain smoke the whole lot. While I’m finishing making tea, I hear Warrick tiptoe down the stairs and his phone bleeps.
“It’s Joe,” he says, “I texted him we’re back and he wants to come home tonight.”
“So let him.”
Warrick sighs. “I don’t wanna be known for leniency, you know? Not after what happened.”
I click my boot on the floor. “He wants to come home, to us. Let him.”
“Okay.”
I watch Warrick’s fingers working on a text and after he’s put his phone on the sideboard, he looks up under dark brows and asks, “What’s up?”
I bite my thumbnail. “I don’t want to say.”
“You’ve been fine all holiday?”
I shrug. “I have, sort of.”
“What’s wrong? Just say it.”
“You still haven’t realised have you? You still don’t know?”
He smiles, but it’s a perturbed grin. His voice serious, he begs, “Jules?”
I frown. He really hasn’t noticed at all. How has this happened?
“Your son’s a man. He’s not a boy anymore. Put yourself back in his shoes, at his age, and remember how it all seemed so real to you already, too.”
He frowns back. “We just had the most wonderful week away and now you’re getting critical of me?”
He drinks back some tea but does so too quickly, burning his lips.
I lean back against the counter and add, “When I was fifteen, I already had a money box buried in the back garden with my university fund inside, slowly growing. I’d been having periods for three years. I’d seen my father piss in a doorway in broad daylight. I’d performed a sexual act on a boy in the park and I’d even watched Amy have full sex in the back of a car while I waited for her to get out so we could go home, get in her bed and watch Sex and the City together, discussing whether we’d ever want to get married or whether a dildo was enough.”
He stares at me, gone out.
I continue, “I was as upset as you but when you put it into perspective, he didn’t hurt anyone or steal or–”
“Hold on–”
“No, listen to me, he’s only going to respond if we treat him like a grown-up. He needs to take responsibility. It never did me any harm growing up. I wouldn’t be here now if I hadn’t found some balls and taken care of myself.”
He folds his arms tight so that the veins in his forearms bulge and send me wild with desire. If only I didn’t know he was upset. “Jules, I love how incredibly strong you are, but I don’t want that for him. I want to protect him.”
“You mean you want the sheltered upbringing for him that you had?” I think he’s beginning to see why I’m more lenient about these things.
“What sexual act was it?” he asks, tapping his foot against the kitchen cupboard behind him.
“Just a hand job. I didn’t do the full thing until I was eighteen.”
He tosses his hands up. “I rest my case.”
I laugh in return. “You can have that one but let me put it like this… sometimes as a kid, you have close shaves and avoid trouble escalating, but sometimes it goes further than you thought. Sometimes you get caught. It’s the way the cookie crumbles. Maybe he’s experimenting, or maybe as I’ve already tried to tell you a hundred times, he wants to be treated equally. He wants us to realise he ain’t a kid anymore.”
I stare at Warrick who looks hurt. He’s my hero and I love him but he’s not always right. He chokes, “I feel like I’ve missed out on so much of him growing up and I don’t know how to deal with this. Guilt is eating me up because for so long I was wrapped up in my shit, I thought he was better off with his mother and I was wrong.”
“Warrick,” I ask gently, “when he comes home, make sure he knows this is his home. He needs us more than you think and more than he’ll say, okay?”
The front door clangs shut and I walk towards the hallway door to wave hello. Joe deposits his bike in the under stairs cupboard and looks wiped out, most probably having rode here like a lunatic.
“Kettle’s just boiled,” I tell him.
Joe joins us in the kitchen, looking none the worse f
or having stayed at his grandfather’s for a week. He and Warrick eye one another warily and I say to Joe, “Sit down. We’ve got a few things to tell you.”
Both of them look at me and Warrick asks, “Have we?”
“Have you?” Joe asks, and they both start biting their nails.
I chuck a packet of chocolate bars on the kitchen table and they sit down, fighting it out for them.
I scold them for squabbling and share the chocolate out equally: a bar each for them and two for me.
“Joe,” I begin, “there’s a few things about my life I want you to know about. I reckon it’s time. I think you’re mature enough to know now and me and your dad recently found something out you might find interesting, too.”
They both stare at me and before either of them have the chance to stop me, I begin, “A few months before my eighth birthday, my mum died…”
I tell Joe about how I thought she died, how I grew up imagining she hung herself or chucked herself off the bridge like a kid in our neighbourhood did.
I explain why I suffer anxiety and always will. These days it’s not bad but it can rear its head occasionally. I tell Joe sparing details about how I was bullied, how I walked to school in the pouring rain feeling water seeping in between my wart-covered toes. How I caught my best friend and father shagging. I tell him about the worst moments in the girl’s locker room, trying to hide tattered undergarments. I explain how and why Laurie broke my heart. How Warrick saved me. I tell him our lives all came together through sheer coincidence – but somehow – Ronnie connects us and now we fear a man high up in trying to battle organised crime might be in fact fuelling it.
“This is some weird shit,” he says at the end. “I don’t know what to say but I honestly don’t know you how you survived, Jules. Knowing something wasn’t right but never being able to explain it…?”
I stare him down. “I don’t know either, Joe.”
“We made some decisions while we were away,” Warrick adds, “about jobs and everything.”
“Okay?” Joe says quietly in response, not sure how things stand with his dad.
Beyond Angel Avenue Page 27