So I got back, kissed Rosie, said how ya doing. Nat was out somewhere, at swimming practice I think. Kissed Gail. This little frown crossed her face but I didn’t think much of it at the time and she didn’t say anything. Maybe it was because Rosie was there, chattering away and telling us things, the way she does. You know, “Did you know that in sixteen-something-or-other, the River Thames froze rock solid and they had a frost fair on it with people skating up and down and they lit fires and everything right on the ice?” That kind of thing.
We had our tea, some sort of chicken thing it was, then Rosie went up to do her homework and Natty came in and Gail went through to give him his food. We all watched a bit of telly then Nat went upstairs, supposedly to do his homework but probably to fool around on the computer as usual. It was all so bloody normal, do you see? An evening like a hundred others, a thousand others. Gail said she was off to have a bath and could I load the dishwasher and I said, “In a minute” and she said, “No, now” over her shoulder as she went up the stairs and I ignored her. I carried on watching this programme; it was one of those docusoaps, you know, where ordinary people suddenly get all famous from being on TV. I was stretched out on the settee wondering what it would be like if they brought TV cameras into work and who’d end up the star, whether it would be me as the manager, or Lee ‘cause he’s a cocky bastard frankly or Harry ‘cause he’s a real salt-of-the-earth type. Then I relived the day—well, mainly the bit with Angela—in my head like watching a video, replaying the good bit which was the anticipation and the moment we started kissing and pulling each other’s clothes off and sort of rewriting the less good bit so that I lasted longer and took her to levels of ecstasy she didn’t even know had been invented yet.
I stacked the plates on the counter, then thought better of it and loaded them properly in the dishwasher and rummaged under the sink for the powder. Why are these things so fiddly? Jeez, by the time you’ve done all that you could have washed them by hand. I locked up and went upstairs.
Gail’s at her dressing-table, taking off her make-up.
“Good day?” she asks, speaking to me in the mirror.
“Yeah, all right.” I start getting undressed. “Just boring, usual stuff, you know.”
“Did you remember to pick up my jacket from the cleaner’s?”
“Oh, bugger. Sorry. I’ll get it tomorrow. Promise.”
She sighs.
“You said that yesterday. It’s not as if I ask you to do much.”
“I said sorry. You weren’t planning to wear it in the middle of the night, were you?” I take off my trousers.
“Scott?”
“Hmm?”
“Why are your pants inside-out?”
“What? They’re not. Are they?”
“Apparently.”
I look down. Oh, fuck. Fuckety-fuck.
I shrug. Stay cool. Don’t get flustered.
“Must have put them on like that this morning. Getting more senile by the day. Soon be time to send me to the Twilight Home, eh?”
Gail’s voice is cold as ice.
“You didn’t. I remember.”
“What—did you carry out an inspection? Course I did. Must’ve done.”
She turns round from the mirror then and stands up.
“I noticed your pants this morning because those are the ones with the hole on the left-hand side which you promised you would throw away.”
“Hole? What hole?” Playing for time. I feel for the hole. Shit. It’s now on the right. Remain calm. Make a joke of it. “What are you, Inspector Morse?”
“Who was she, Scott?” Her voice is calm and low. I can barely hear her, but I figure now’s not the time to ask her to speak up a bit.
“Now come on! You’ve been spoiling for a fight all evening. What’s all this about? If you had a crap day, then fine—just say so, but don’t start taking it out on me. That’s so typical of you. Just because a person’s pants are inside out doesn’t mean—”
“What does it mean then?”
Behind her, the mirror of her dressing-table catches my eye.
“Look, you must have seen me in the mirror this morning. That’s why you thought it was on the other side. But they were already wrong, right?”
“Wrong. You’re the one who’s wrong. Right?”
It would have been better if she’d been shouting at me, crying and hysterical, then I could be the reasonable one concentrating on trying to calm her down. But she was already calm, which was much more scary. And I was running out of ideas.
“I remember now. I—I did take my things off after a job but only because—because I got a splinter of glass in my leg so I had to take my trousers off.”
“And you removed your pants for what reason exactly?”
“Because there was this sharp bit. Look!” I stab at a point on my hip. “I thought I’d got a bit of glass right here, so I took them off in the toilet at work to check, but I couldn’t see anything and I put them right back on. That was it. End of story. Ask anyone. Lee was there. Ask him. Ask Harry.”
She just stands there, her arms folded, eyes cold and shining—like glass.
“You’re a lying bastard!” Her voice is suddenly loud, the words snapping out like blows to my belly. “And you smelt of some awful perfume or soap earlier. You slept with someone else, I know you did!”
“I didn’t. I swear I didn’t.” I’m going for calm with a touch of outrage. “I can see how you might have got that impression, but you’re just wrong. Honestly.”
“You swear?”
“Yes, I swear. I said so, didn’t I? Now come on, love. You know I’d never do that.”
“What on?”
* * *
Can you believe it? I mean, she’s wasted as a sodding doctor’s receptionist, she should be a lawyer. I was still going for the What—me? approach.
“Come on, Gail. Let’s be sensible now. What do you mean, what on? What, like the Bible? I think you’re getting things all out of proportion. When’s your period due?”
Now, normally of course, I might think that but as I value my life, I don’t say it. Nothing sends Gail into a strop faster than suggesting she has PMT and it’s all down to her hormones. Don’t know why—you think she’d be pleased to have an excuse. When I’m in a mood, it’s just I’m being an awkward bugger and there’s the end of it. But I thought it was a good diversionary tactic, like lobbing a hand grenade out the front while you escape out the back.
She doesn’t rise to it though, just raises one eyebrow at me. Not a good sign.
“Swear you didn’t sleep with someone else …”
“I swear. I didn’t sleep with anyone else. OK?”
She shakes her head.
“Not good enough.”
“I swear—look, I swear on my life. All right? Can we let it drop now? It’s been a long day.”
“No. Swear on Rosie’s life. On Nat’s life.”
“What? You’re being ridiculous now. I don’t know what’s got into you.”
“Swear on our children’s lives. Come on. You can’t do it, can you?”
“Course. I—”
* * *
It’s dead quiet. All I can hear is my own heartbeat, my breathing. I imagine I can even hear the blood rushing round my body, as if it’s hunting in every corner of me for a miracle, a good excuse. It’s only a lie. I can cross my fingers behind my back. I can say I don’t really mean it inside my head, to cancel it out. I should just risk it. I’m not even superstitious for chrissakes. Come on, Scotty, what’s the difference? Say it, for God’s sake, man, just say it. I try it inside my head, saying it quickly, silently. I swear on Rosie’s life, on Nat’s life, that I didn’t sleep with another woman. Even silent, the words crackle with danger, like they’ve sparked a deadly fuse—images flicker through my mind, in split-second flashes—Rosie cycling along the pavement on her purple bicycle—car taking the corner too fast—driver’s face in shock, his whisky-dulled reflexes going in slow motion—mou
nting the kerb—Rosie’s face, her little mouth falling open in a silent “O"—the sickening screech of tyres. And Nat—suddenly older—at a club—body so lean and tall, he looks like he’s not yet grown into it, not ready for it yet—he steps back to let a girl pass, knocks someone’s drink—a face, hot with hate, close to his—pushing—broken glass—the flash of a knife pulled from a sock—Nat’s face, the surprise on it, his eyes as he looks down to see his own blood.
“I—”
* * *
Outside, a car suddenly revs up and we both jump. And then I lose it completely and start babbling:
“It was only the once. It really was. It was nothing, meant nothing. She doesn’t mean anything to me—it wasn’t what you think—it wasn’t an affair, nothing like that—honestly—it just happened—it’ll never happen again—I’ll never see her again—I swear—I promise—you see, it—”
“Ssshh!” Gail says. “The kids’ll hear. Keep your voice down.”
“Sorry.”
She snorts through her nose at my limp apology.
“Kitchen.” She heads downstairs. “Put something on.”
I pull my trousers back on over the treacherous underpants, and my shirt that I’d flung over the back of a chair.
She’s sitting at the kitchen table, drinking a glass of water. I offer her coffee but she snorts again. Still, I need to do something with my hands, which won’t stop shaking, so I fumble with the kettle, the coffee jar, drag out the business of opening the fridge, pouring the milk, slowly taking the lid off the sugar bowl, looking down into my coffee as I stir it, as if the answer of what to do next would suddenly be revealed in my mug. Wipe at the wet coffee ring on the counter and spread the cloth out to dry properly, showing her what a good husband I am. Pick up a tea-towel hanging over the back of a chair, clutch it for something to hold onto, as if it could somehow save me.
“I didn’t realize our marriage meant nothing to you.”
“It doesn’t! It means everything, you know it does.”
Gail shakes her head.
“Ssh! Fifteen years down the drain. Bit of a waste, I’d say.”
“C’mon, love. Don’t be like that. We can work things out.”
“Like what? Don’t you dare tell me how to behave. How dare you! You fucking little shit, you could have given me a disease, AIDS, anything!”
I flinch hearing Gail swear. I can’t think the last time I heard her swear. She’s normally really good about it, because of setting an example to Nat and Rosie. It’s like hearing a nun swear or something.
“No, Gail. There’s no need to worry about that. We used protection.”
“Oh, I see. It was totally unplanned and you had no idea your wayward willy was going to lead you into some slag’s bed but you happened to have a packet of condoms on you. Am I supposed to be grateful?”
You can’t win, can you?
“They weren’t mine. She had them.”
After that, there’s no stopping her, on and on she goes, one question after another, firing them off like bullets but still strangely controlled, like she’s a quizmaster reading them from an autocue: Who is this bitch? What’s her name? How old is she? Where does she live? How did I meet her? Did I tell her I was married? Does she want me to move in? On and on. Nothing I say seems to make any difference.
“It’s nothing like that, Gail. I told you, it was—”
“Oh, shut up, Scott. Just shut up. I haven’t got the energy to be screaming at each other all night.” I hadn’t been screaming, but now wasn’t the time to be picking her up on details. Then suddenly she stood up. “It’s bin day tomorrow. Did you remember to put the rubbish out?”
“Er, no. Strangely, it slipped my mind.” Still, it seems like a good sign, you know, that things are settling down and we’re getting back to normal again. I start thinking, we’ll sleep on it and she’ll be better in the morning, we can have a talk and I’ll explain how it was.
“Well, I can’t do it. I’ve not got my slippers on.”
I even feel grateful that I’ve got something to do. Something physical, something I could actually manage without making a total balls-up of it. I flick the tea-towel over my shoulder like a chef and shove my bare feet into my loafers from the shoe rack in the hall. Go round the side to get the bin. I hear the front door click shut. Put the bin out front then tap lightly on the glass.
“Gail?”
“Yes?” Her voice is cold, distant.
“Open up, love. It’s cold out here.”
“Who’s there?”
Oh, great, we’re going to play silly buggers, are we?
“Come on. It’s me. Stop pissing about.”
“I’m afraid you don’t live here any more.”
I squat down to talk to her through the letterbox.
“Gail!”
“Sssh!” Her eyes meet mine. “Don’t you dare upset the children. I realize you’ve got no regard for my feelings, but I’d have thought you’d at least care about theirs.”
“Gail. Sweetheart. I’m freezing out here. A joke’s a joke, but that’s enough now. Let me in and we can have a proper talk, eh?”
“A joke? Is that what this is to you? You just turn my entire life upside-down and throw fifteen years of my life away and you think it’s a joke. Well, I’m sorry if I don’t share your sense of humour. Try not to get in the milkman’s way if you’re planning to camp on the front step all night.”
The hall light clicks off.
“Gail! For chrissakes. Look, let’s all calm down now—”
“I’m perfectly calm. Yes, I seem to be. I’m quite calm.”
“At least open the door to give me my car keys, Gail. You wouldn’t have me walk the streets all night, would you?”
There is a silence. I stand up, seeing her shape move about through the frosted glass of the door. There’s a jangling sound—my keys—what could be taking so long? I duck down again so I can peer through the letterbox and she nearly pokes my sodding eye out with the keys. She’s taken my house keys off the ring, leaving just my car and work keys. Cheers, darling. Then she bends down and I’m staring straight into her eyes through the slot.
“I’ve taken off your house keys because you won’t be needing them again.”
“Gail, sweetheart, c’mon now, let’s not get—”
Then she shoves the flap back in my face.
“Can I have my jacket then? Please.”
“It won’t fit through the letterbox.”
I feel like Hannibal the Cannibal in Silence of the Lambs. You know, Hannibal Lecter and all his food and papers has to go through this slot otherwise he’ll take a bite out of you as soon as look at you.
“Just open the door a crack.” I figure if I can just get my foot in the door, I can keep her talking a bit longer, get her to see reason.
She’s just the other side of the door. Then I hear her slam the bolt across and double-lock the door. I watch her through the letterbox, the backs of her bare feet as she climbs the stairs to our bedroom alone.
“Gail!”
Ha! She’ll probably come down in ten minutes to let me in. She’s just trying to get her own back, punish me by having me freeze on my own front doorstep. Still, what if she doesn’t? Anyway, I couldn’t stay out there all night. I get in the car and start the engine to warm it up, thinking what the hell do I do now? Where can I go, where can I go?
And that’s how I ended up spending the night at work.
Rosie
Nat’s a big, fat liar. He said that Dad’s left us and he’s not coming back, he said Dad never came home last night and Mum was lying when she told us he’d gone out with a friend and that’s why he wasn’t eating with us. Mum says it’s wrong to lie. That time when I broke the yellow teapot and I hid all the pieces in the garden behind the shed and said I hadn’t seen it, then Mum said you have to tell the truth and if you do everything will be all right. Nat tells lies the whole time. He says he’s doing his homework when he’s playing on his com
puter. He says he hasn’t any money for the bus, so Mum gives it to him and then he walks to school and keeps the money. He says it is all right and not really like lying because he might need the money for the bus and anyway it is not hurting anyone.
Dad wasn’t at breakfast this morning, and he didn’t say goodbye again, same as yesterday.
When Mum wasn’t looking, Nat kicked me under the table and said, “See?” He nodded at Dad’s empty chair. I kicked Nat then tucked my legs up under me so he couldn’t get me back again.
* * *
Then Mum told us we were going to Nana and Grandad’s for the weekend. Nat made a face, but he likes it there really. Nana makes the best roast potatoes in the whole wide world and last time Grandad told us he had a picture of the Queen each for us behind the clock on the mantelpiece and when we looked there were two ten pound notes. Nat asked Mum if Dad was coming too. He took an orange out of the fruit bowl and started throwing it up in the air and catching it in one hand. Then Mum said, actually, no he wouldn’t be coming and then her face went all funny and she sat down in a chair really quickly and said she needed to talk to us.
Nat turned round and dropped his orange.
“See, Rosie! I told you!”
“Nathan! Don’t shout at Rosie.”
“I’ve got to go.”
Mum looked at the clock.
“You’ve got a minute. Please come and sit down.”
“I’ll stand.”
Mum sighed, then she said that she and Dad had decided that they were going to have a little bit of time apart and so Dad wouldn’t be living with us at home for a while. She said it wasn’t because of us and we must understand that Mummy and Daddy both still loved us very much. Nat was standing to one side and he poked his finger in his mouth, like he does if something makes him sick.
Nat picked up his orange and dropped it on the table like a ball, as if he thought it would bounce.
Lessons for a Sunday Father Page 5