* * *
I boil the kettle for a Pot Noodle. Mum comes in.
“All right there?” she says.
I nod at the kettle. “'s just boiled.” I shrug. “You want—coffee? Instant, I mean. I’m not messing about with that other stuff.”
The look on her face is something else. Jeez, it’s only a coffee.
“Uh, yes. Yes, thank you. Thank you very much, Nathan. That’s really thoughtful of you.”
“Yeah, all right. Don’t go overboard. ‘s no big deal.”
“It is to me.”
She sits down at the table and I pass her over the coffee, only spilling a little bit.
“Care to join me?”
It’s better to stand. It makes you grow taller. I stay leaning against the counter.
“Mn.”
“Nathan.” She’s looking down into the coffee and keeps touching the mug as if it’s a gold bar or something and she can’t believe it’s really sitting there on the table in front of her.
“Mn.” Not another lecture, please. Give me a break.
“Nat. I realize these last few months must have been pretty strange and confusing for you.”
“Whatever.” I stab at my noodles and mush them around with my fork.
“Don’t worry, I’m not planning to lecture you. Just hear me out a minute.”
“OK. Shoot.”
“I’ve made a bit of a hash of things …”
“Mn.”
“Quite. Well, I have. There’s no getting round it. I think it’s been easier for Rosie in a way because she’s younger and she’s carried on seeing your dad. But you—I worry about you, Nat.”
“'m fine.” I shovel a forkload of noodles into my mouth, but they’re still too hot.
“I really don’t want you to see your dad as the villain in all this.”
I roll my eyes. Puh-leese. The guy walked out the door without a second thought—what would you call him?
“No, really, Nat. You know, I think in grown-up relationships, when they don’t work out and everything seems like a big old mess—well, there’s usually no heroes and no villains, hmm? Just people trying to do their best—”
“Yeah, right.”
“—trying to do their best—even though it may not look like it from the outside.”
I dig down into my noodles and give them another sloosh round. If you don’t do that, it’s never mixed properly at the bottom.
“You know,” she blahs on. “Like when you’re swimming—and you’re going as fast as you can and you’re trying so hard, you really are, but … well, sometimes you just don’t win. Because that’s just the way things are.”
“I usually do though. ‘Cept in backstroke and butterfly.”
“True. But have a little compassion for the rest of us who trail a couple of lengths behind, eh?”
She gets up then and starts pulling things out the fridge and the cupboards to get ready for our tea.
“All I’m saying is, please try not to blame your dad too much, OK? And if you could see your way to giving him another chance, go out with him one Sunday, it’d mean a lot to him, it really would.”
“Should have thought of that before he walked out on us then, shouldn’t he?”
“Walked out? What do you mean? He didn’t, Nat. I thought I explained it all to you. I thought you under-stood—we were having a lot of problems and we needed some time apart.”
Excuse me? Like, uh-duh, do I look like I’m Rosie? I’m not buying it. How clueless does she think I am?
“Mn.”
“Quite the contrary, in fact. I threw—well, I asked your dad to leave.”
I stop twirling my noodles. They look like worms, have you noticed that? Like slithery, slimy worms. Dead worms.
It can’t be true. I reckon she’s making it up to cover for him. Grown-ups are always saying it’s wrong to lie but then they lie the whole time. You can’t trust anything they say. Not any of them.
Scott
This is the last time. Absolutely, definitely the last time. I won’t come back to my house again. Well, not uninvited, not like this any more, sneaking around. I’m not even sure why I’m here now—except it feels like I’m saying goodbye. I go round each room, touching the furniture, patting the settee as if it’s a dog, sliding my hand along the sideboard, walking my fingers over the top of the TV, then I make myself a coffee and go up to our old bedroom. Gail’s room now. I open the wardrobe and run my hand along the clothes, feeling them, remembering when she wore them. OK, mostly not remembering—Gail always says I never notice what she wears, but that’s only half-true. See, this dress here, this blue one, she wore that when we had that Greek holiday. And these black trousers, she wears these practically all the time. And this white top, she looks really nice in that when she’s got a bit of a tan. I go over to the dressing-table and lift up the lids of the glass pots—cotton-wool in one, earrings in another, a necklace with big mauve shiny beads on it that Rosie made her. Tucked into the mirror frame are her birthday cards from the kids. The one from Nat is a shop-bought card, a cartoon one. There’s a woman in curlers on the front peering at herself in a mirror and it says CONGRATULATIONS … then inside it says, “… Only another 20 years to go and you can start collecting your pension.” The one from Rosie is hand-made, of course. It has 40 on the front in enormous multicoloured numbers and a flower on a long stem that sort of snakes its way all round the edge as a kind of border. Inside it says HAPPY BIRTHDAY MUMMY. YOU ARE 40 TODAY. LOTS OF LOVE FROM ROSIE XXX.
Then I go into the kids’ rooms. Rosie’s room is dead cute, you should see it. I’ve finished painting her room at the flat now and laid some carpet down and got her a bed so she can stay over every other Saturday night, but she needs a desk and a chair and a lamp to make it all proper. It’s going to be a great room. Eventually. I bought a sofa-bed, just in case Nat—. Well, see how we go, eh? Nat’s room is a mess, of course. Nothing new there then. I’d like to leave him a bit of pocket money ‘cause he always seems to spend his in about five minutes. Where can I leave it so’s he’ll find it but won’t realize I’ve been here? His sports bag is on the floor. There’s a damp towel in it and an old pair of trainers and two empty crisp packets, a small carton of juice, some computer game I’ve never even heard of and various other items such as odd socks and shower gel. Right at the bottom, I find four postage stamps and a torn piece of paper with my old address on it in Gail’s writing. Hmm. What’s all that about then? I crumple up a tenner then flatten it out again and tuck it half under the rigid bit at the bottom of the bag.
His roller-blades are hanging up on the back of the door. You should see him skate, he’s the biz. The main man. Actually, I’m not bad myself. For a crumbly.
Gail will be back soon. I better get a move on. The dishwasher’s empty, so I wash up my coffee mug like a good boy, dry it and put it back exactly as it was in the cupboard. Then I take one last dekko round the kitchen, the front room, looking at everything as if I’m trying to memorize it for a quiz, close the doors behind me the way Gail leaves them till it’s just me, standing alone in the hall, and then there’s nothing left to do but step out onto the front path, lock the door behind me, and I’m gone.
There’s a toot-toot and Harry sticks his head round the office door.
“Want anything from the sandwich van?” he says.
“Not sure what I fancy.” Getting to my feet slowly. “I’ll come and have a look.” All casual. No rush. Strolling out.
Three in line in front of me, Lee never missing an opportunity to chat up any available totty as usual. I get there and I’m pausing as if I can’t make up my mind, waiting a tick for the others to drift back inside.
Thingybob nods and smiles.
“Not seen you for a while. I thought maybe you’d defected to a rival sandwich-maker.”
I wrinkle my nose in what I hope is a suave and sexy way.
“Would I do that? Besides, there aren’t any.”
“You’r
e full of cheer today, aren’t you? What’s up? I like to think I can count on you to give my day a little lift.”
Is she having me on? At least she’s smiling.
“Sorry, it’s just life’s been a bit hectic of late, you know? Too much work, too much dashing around all over the shop. Domestic hoo-hahs, that kind of thing.”
“Oh?” She looks into my eyes for a second. Green. Her eyes are green. I have to stop myself from saying it out loud, or she’ll think I’m a moron. “I’m sorry,” she says. “Sounds tough.”
“Yeah. Well.” I cough attractively. For chrissakes, lighten up, boy. “Nothing a chicken baguette can’t fix.”
“Oops. Sorry. I’m all out. I don’t know what’s with everyone today. They’ve all got the munchies. I’ve only got sandwiches or ordinary rolls. And I’ve no fresh chicken left either. But … hang on. How about mozzarella and tomato on ciabatta bread? I can do that if you don’t mind waiting?”
“Sure. Sounds swish. Are you branching out?”
She shrugs, talking over her shoulder as she reaches up to a high cupboard.
“I always have it. I just don’t normally offer it to you lot. Didn’t think it was your cup of tea. I take them to those units out by the river, you know? There’s a design place and a recording studio. They love all that—ciabatta, focaccia, smoked salmon bagels.”
“And we’re not sophisticated enough? I can’t imagine what makes you think that.” I pretend to wipe my nose on my sleeve.
She laughs, looking down at the bread as she cuts it.
“Basil?”
“No, Scott. And you?”
“The herb, silly. Do you want some in your sandwich?”
“Go on, then. Sod the expense. You didn’t answer my question.” She’s still looking down, sprinkling the torn leaves over the tomatoes and reaching for a sheet of greaseproof paper with her other hand.
“Which was?”
“Your name. I don’t know if you ever told me it. If you did, I seem to have forgotten. What?” She’s looking at me like I’m brain dead.
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Don’t tell me. We used to go to school together or we were married once and I really ought to know it?”
She shakes her head and laughs again.
“Take a step back.”
“Why? Are you going to hit me?”
“Don’t tempt me. Go on. Step back. What do you see?”
And there it is, in ginormous great red letters under the hatch:
ELLA’S EDIBLES
Fresh rolls and sandwiches. Home-made cakes.
Delivered to your door or desk.
“So. Ella. That’s your name then.”
“No, it’s really Tatiana, but this was on the side of the van when I bought it and I couldn’t afford a respray, so I changed my name instead.”
I look up at her. Not a flicker of a smile.
“What, really?”
She sighs.
“You’re slow this morning.”
I bang my forehead against the side of her van and moan softly to myself. “Jeez. I am being so thick today. Make that every day. Take me to the vet and put me out of my misery.”
“Oi! Leave off the van. Half of it still belongs to Barclays.”
“Sorry.” I look up at her again looking down at me, like Juliet on the balcony. She smiles and hands me a piece of coffee fudge cake.
“On the house. Here.” She hands me a business card. “Case you ever want to order extra rolls,” she shrugs, “—or anything. Or to reserve a mozzarella and tomato special.”
“With basil?”
She nods.
“Except on Wednesdays,” she says. “That’s his day off.”
Gail
Yesterday, I got home from work earlier than usual. I’m full time at the surgery now, but I came straight back because Rosie was going to Kira’s after school. I came in, dumped my bag on the kitchen table and went straight over to fill the kettle, make myself a good strong cup of tea. And you know what? The kettle was warm. I noticed it but didn’t register at once that it was odd, that of course it shouldn’t have been. Then suddenly it clicked. Still warm after eight hours, when I left this morning? Also, it was nearly full. For one second, I had the horrible thought that we might have had a burglar. But the kitchen looked exactly as I’d left it. I crept into the sitting-room. No sign of any disturbance there either. Anyway, what kind of burglar would break in and make himself a cup of tea but not steal anything?
Ah—only one kind of burglar. The Scott kind. It has to be him. How the hell did he get keys? Where did I put his old keys? They were in that awful old ashtray in the lounge. I know, I moved them so I didn’t have to keep looking at them, and so the kids wouldn’t have to see them. Understairs cupboard, on a hook on the back of the door. So I checked and they were still there, still with the key fob with that horrible old photo of me. God, I looked so young. Nasty dress though, and those flicks in my hair. Thank God I’ve got better taste these days. He can’t have broken in, he wouldn’t have the nerve. Anyway, I’d have noticed. He must have sneakily taken the keys when they were still in the lounge one Sunday when he came to pick up Rosie, and then had them copied and put them back.
I wonder how many times he’s been here. I moved the keys weeks and weeks ago, so it must be more than once. It’s strange, now that I think back, there were a couple of times when I had the feeling that someone had been in the house. But it seemed crazy, particularly when nothing had been stolen and there were no signs of a break-in. Like that time when my nightie went missing. I was sure I’d put it under my pillow, but it just vanished. First, I thought Rosie had borrowed it for dressing-up, and when she swore she hadn’t, I wondered if perhaps she’d ripped it or something and was scared I’d tell her off, and it was only an old one anyway. Then I thought maybe I was losing my marbles—practically every day I seemed to be forgetting what I was supposed to be doing and mislaying things and leaving things in odd places, so it just seemed yet another proof that I was falling apart.
I’m not sure what to do about it. I can’t let it carry on, of course. He’s got some nerve, I’ll say that. I can’t understand it though, especially after—after he was here last, when I told him—tried to tell him—that I couldn’t, didn’t want him back. I was so anxious about it and then, in the end, he made it so easy. I didn’t even have to explain, but he seemed to understand.
Sunday. I told Rosie to go back upstairs for a few minutes and sort out her games kit so I could wash it today while she’s out with her dad. Then I asked Scott into the kitchen.
“Fancy a quick coffee?” He looked surprised and a bit on edge, like he’d be ready to run for it if I were to pounce.
“Oh, cheers then, Gail. What’s brought this on then?”
“What’s brought what on?”
“Well.” He shrugged. “Inviting me in. Giving me coffee. The red carpet treatment.”
I walked across to the kettle and patted the side of it. Watched his face.
“Gosh!” I said, my voice upbeat like one of those permanently cheery TV presenters. “The kettle’s still warm from earlier. It’s amazing how long it stays hot, isn’t it?”
He got it straight away, I could tell from his face. He looked ashamed. Guilty. And very, very embarrassed.
“I didn’t think there was much point in keeping you out on the doorstep if you’re only going to sneak in when you feel like it anyway.”
“Wasn’t sneaking.” He avoided my eyes. “And anyway, it was the last time, I swear it. I wasn’t ever going to do it again.”
“You can skip the pouting and the it wasn’t me, Miss, schoolboy act, Scott. What on earth did you think you were doing? I could have you arrested. Were you spying on me? Like a stalker? It’s so creepy. I thought we were going to be straight with each other now—you know, after last time. I thought we were both beginning to move on.”
“We are. I am. Honestly.”
“Tell me then, Scott. W
hy? How long have you been doing it?”
His body sagged in the chair, like an old dog that’s too tired to do tricks any more. He shook his head and, for a moment, I thought he was still trying to deny it. But that wasn’t it. I think he was just sorry and ashamed and didn’t even understand it quite himself.
“At first, it was just because I could, you see? I had the keys copied and I felt like I was being clever, getting one over on you—thinking you couldn’t keep me out even though you thought you had—and then, I don’t know—I—I—just wanted—still—to be with you—with all of you—and I’d go into Rosie’s room and look at her bits and bobs and her posters—and Nat’s room with all his mess everywhere and his roller-blades hanging up on the back of the door—and it—and you—and you—and it—smelt like home, you see—and—I—I didn’t harm anything. I promise. I was very careful—I—tried—I—” His voice caught in his throat and then he started to cry. Yes, Scott—crying. His face just sort of crumpled up like an old hankie, tears spilling down his cheeks. It was so shocking, like seeing rocks crumble into dust before my eyes. I could hardly bear to watch his face. I went and stood behind him then and laid my hand on his shoulder. I wondered if I should hold him, put my arms around him the way he had with me, but it would have felt so strange and I wasn’t sure how much comfort I could offer him.
Lessons for a Sunday Father Page 28