Days Like These

by Sue Margolis

  “Possibly. But to be honest, I don’t care. I just need some space.”

  She promises to stay in touch and we make a tentative plan for her, Ginny and me to get together for a curry one night soon.

  • • •

  I am finishing my coffee while half watching the TV news and admiring my orange tulips, which have reached that droopy, but arty predeath phase, when I hear yelling and screaming from one of the bedrooms. As I charge up the stairs, there’s a loud thump. Somebody has fallen or most likely been pushed off the bed. For the second time today I’m imagining broken heads.

  Sam’s bedroom door is wide-open. The pair of them—unbathed and still in school uniforms—are rolling on the floor punching and kicking, faces contorted, teeth bared, in a perfect imitation of Mason and Tyler.

  “What on earth is going on in here? Stop it at once.” I manage to get both my arms around Rosie’s waist and lift her off her brother. She struggles against me, kicking and yelling. Then she lands a particularly powerful—but I assume accidental—blow on my shin.

  “Rosie! For God’s sake. That really hurt.”

  “I hate him. I hate him.”

  By now Mum has come to see what all the noise is about.

  “Rosie, that’s a terrible thing to say. Of course you don’t hate Sam. You should be grateful you’ve got a brother. What I wouldn’t give to have my brother back.”

  Rosie carries on, straining against me.

  “Mum, please. Not now,” I say.

  Sam is on his feet. “She stole my iPad.”

  “I did not,” Rosie screams, lurching forward, arms flailing. “You weren’t using it. And it’s not your iPad. It’s to share.”

  “I was using it.”

  “No, you weren’t. It was on the bed.”

  “I went to the loo. I was in the middle of Skylanders Trap Team and you stole it and ruined the game.”

  “I didn’t. I didn’t.” Once again Rosie lurches forward in an attempt to break free.

  Mum sees the iPad lying on the bed and picks it up. “Right, this is being confiscated.”

  “Why?” Sam bleats. “It’s not my fault.”

  “I don’t care whose fault it is,” I tell him. “I’ve had enough of both of you. This fighting has to stop.”

  I send them to have baths and tell them we will reconvene downstairs to discuss their behavior as soon as they’re done. They glare at each other, but there are no objections or attempts to resume hostilities.

  • • •

  Mum and I wait for them in the living room. Mum tells me I look done in.

  “I feel it. I’m not sure how much more of this I can take.”

  “Do you think they were copying those boys you were telling me about?”

  “Partly. But it’s more than that… . Mum, tell me honestly: do you think the kids are suffering from separation anxiety? Do you think they’re playing up because they’re missing Abby and Tom?”

  “I don’t think it’s that. Of course they miss their parents. But I’ve got another theory.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Well, it’s not my place to say anything, but if you ask me they’re exhausted. I think they do too much. When did all this after-school nonsense start? Nobody did it when you were at school and you did all right.”

  All this time, my mother has been thinking the same as me. She sees more than I think. Old as she is, there are no flies on her.

  “I’m glad you said that. I’ve been thinking the same thing. I tried talking to Abby before they went away. She and Tom aren’t fools. They get it. But all the parents at Faraday House push their kids. There’s so much competition. It’s as if they’re on this treadmill that they can’t get off.”

  “It’s not them that need to get off. It’s the children.”

  Just then, Rosie and Sam appear in their pj’s. They’re both looking pretty sheepish. Rosie is clutching Denise, who’s turned a bit limp and black again.

  “Sorry for fighting,” Sam says.

  “I’m sorry, too.”

  “You know,” Mum says, “your grandma isn’t as young as she was. She gets tired. She can’t cope with all these fights. It’s too much for her. You’ll wear her out. And if she gets ill, where will you be?”

  “Mum, stop it. You’re scaring them. I’m not that decrepit.”

  “I’m just saying, that’s all.”

  Rosie and Sam look close to tears.

  “OK,” I say to them. “We need to talk.”

  I start by sitting them down and asking if they are aware that they’re fighting more than usual. They both shrug.

  “Well, take it from me, you are. And I think I know why. You’re doing too much after school and as a result you’re getting tired and bad-tempered.”

  “Is it why I’m finding it hard to get to sleep?” Rosie says.

  “It might be.”

  “So, can we stop doing them?” Sam says.

  “Do you want to?”

  His face lights up. “Could we, really? You mean Mum and Dad wouldn’t mind?”

  “I think we should stop French,” Rosie says. “It’s really boring. And I hate Zumba.”

  Sam says the only thing he wants to keep up is his chess. “I’ve got the big tournament soon, and Mum and Dad will be disappointed if I give up.”

  “Sweetheart, you don’t have to carry on with it just to please your mum and dad. If Bogdan is upsetting you with his yelling, it’s fine to stop.”

  “No. I can manage. I want to carry on. And with football, too.”

  “What about computer club?”

  “Boring.” He pauses. “But Mum says we won’t get into a decent university if we don’t do loads of extra stuff outside school. She says we need a hinterland.”

  Rosie wants to know what a hinterland is.

  “It means learning other stuff apart from what you learn in school,” Sam says.

  I tell them that I’ll speak to Abby and Tom and that they should stop worrying. “It’ll be fine. I promise.”

  “Good luck with that,” Mum says under her breath. She heaves herself out of the armchair and goes back to stuffing her chicken neck.

  CHAPTER

  eleven

  Sunday is snow cold, the sky a doom-laden gray. I’m all for spending the afternoon watching a movie and toasting marshmallows. Mum says we’re out of marshmallows. The kids say they’ve seen everything.

  “Since when did that bother you?”

  Since they got bored with being stuck inside for most of the weekend because of bad weather.

  “When I poked my head outside earlier,” Mum says, “it was bitter. Talk about March winds… . Believe me, you’re better off staying in.”

  The wind word is music to my grandchildren’s ears. Yay. Let’s go to the park and fly the kite. The crêpe man will be there in his van and we can warm ourselves up with pancakes and hot chocolate. I’m aware that the kids are going stir-crazy and need a run, so I give in. They rush to get their coats. I remind them that they’re going to need extra sweaters as well as hats and gloves.

  Mum says she’s going to take a nap. I hear her plodding up the stairs, oomphing and sucking in her breath. Her knees are bad today. Even so, part of me envies her. I want an excuse to be horizontal, eyes shut, for an hour or so.

  The events of the last few weeks are catching up with me. Last night after I went to bed, I lay staring at the ceiling, fretting about the kids’ behavior and what to do about it. What if my diagnosis, not to mention my mother’s, was wrong? Suppose Sam and Rosie gave up a load of after-school activities and nothing changed? Moreover, if Sam really was determined to carry on seeing Bogdan—who returned after I berated him, just as my mother had predicted, and was being only slightly less horrible—I couldn’t see his behavior improving anytime soon. The pressure on Sam would be just the same.

  Then it occurred to me that I could be overreacting. Maybe it would be more sensible to find strategies to help the kids deal with their stress rath
er than remove it altogether. Hadn’t Tanya mentioned some amazing yoga teacher who worked with kids? Was it really necessary for them to abandon the after-school activities that their parents believed were so important? This led me to another thought: I was interfering. I had to remind myself—not for the first time—that it was none of my business how Abby and Tom chose to raise their children.

  On the other hand, when I suggested to the kids that they give up some of their commitments, they couldn’t wait. More to the point, I pretty much promised to make it happen. I couldn’t go back on that. I didn’t know what to do—or say—for the best. I didn’t want to put more pressure on Abby and Tom. It was the reason I was putting off Skyping them.

  • • •

  We’re not the only people who have decided to fly kites. Despite the cold and gray, the park is full of mums, dads and overexcited kids and dogs shouting and barking and getting caught up in kite strings.

  It’s Sam who notices Seb. He’s sitting on a patch of half-frozen mud, rubbing his knees and looking sorry for himself. Above him, a giant magenta-and-emerald butterfly with ribbons floating from each wing is about to careen into the branches of an oak tree.

  I’m guessing he was running with the kite, lost his balance and tripped. Sam rushes over to see if he can help. I jog after him, with Rosie several paces behind, whining that she wants to get on with flying our kite, not help Sebastian. We reach Seb at the same time as his grandfather.

  “Lord. What’s he done now? All I did was nip to the loo. First it was the drone… .” Mike turns to Sebastian and asks what happened.

  “I wasn’t looking where I was going. Then, as I fell, I let go of the kite.” He points to the oak tree. By now the butterfly is lodged high in the naked branches. “I’ll never get it back now.”

  Mike helps him up and the boy starts brushing mud off the arms of his fleece.

  “Your knees OK?” Mike asks. Apparently they’re fine.

  “Don’t worry,” Sam says. “You can help us fly our kite.”

  “Cool. Thanks.”

  But Rosie isn’t having it. “No, he can’t. If the boys are in charge I won’t ever get a turn.”

  “Yes, you will,” Mike says, lowering his body to Rosie’s height. “Because I’ll be watching. I’ll make sure you get a go.”

  Rosie tilts her head to one side. “Are you a grandpa?”

  “I am. I’m Seb’s grandpa.”

  “I used to have two grandpas. Then one died, so now I only have one.”

  “That’s very sad.”

  “It’s OK. Grandpa Brian’s in heaven. Mummy says it’s nice there. I wish I could go and visit him, but you can’t. How old are you?”

  “I’m sixty.”

  “That’s really old. But not as old as Nana Frieda. She lives with us and she’ll probably die soon because her guts hurt all the time and give her acid. So then I’ll have two people in heaven.”

  “Well, I’m sure your nana won’t be going for a long time.”

  “Actually she’s going very soon. She keeps on saying it. She says the Nazis didn’t get her, but her guts will.”

  Mike starts laughing. I inform him that my mother is a bit of a character.

  “She sounds it.”

  The three children run off to join the kite flyers at the top of the hill.

  “And don’t go where I can’t see you!” Mike and I chime in unison.

  “Ha. Once a parent … ,” Mike says to me.

  “Isn’t that the truth? … So, no Hero?”

  It turns out that Hero wanted to stay at home with her dad and watch Frozen.

  “Oh dear. Poor dad.”

  “I know. Bloody film. It’s not even funny. At least Shrek had jokes for adults.”

  “I couldn’t agree more. That said, I did notice one adult joke in Frozen.” I tell him about the bit where Anna and Kristoff are arguing about how well she knows Hans. He asks her if she knows Hans’s foot size and she says that it’s not foot size that matters. “So there you go … Frozen has a penis joke.”

  “Huh—I never noticed that.”

  “You know, my mother would accuse me of being a hussy if she knew I’d said the word ‘penis’ in front of a man I hardly knew. In fact, my mother would probably call me a hussy if I said it in front of a man I did know.”

  That makes him laugh. “OK, if it makes you feel better, I’ll strike it from the record.”

  “That would be good.”

  We wander over to an empty bench. Above us, kites swoop and soar. There are red-and-gold Chinese dragons with fangs and long multiarched tails. There are ladybirds and bumblebees and giant rainbow box kites. Then there’s ours—the Rhombus Eezie Whiz. It’s made of thin, eminently tearable canary yellow plastic. Tom got it for a fiver on Amazon.

  We sit blowing into our gloved hands while we watch the kids. Seb, being the oldest, appears to have taken charge. He’s running alongside Rosie, doing his best to help her to launch the kite. But she lacks speed and inches. The kite drifts to the ground and she hands it back to the boys.

  Mike decides we need coffee to warm us up. While he joins the queue at the crêpe van, I don’t take my eyes off the kids. I’m on the lookout for fights.

  The coffee is extra hot and makes an excellent hand warmer. “So,” Mike says, “with your having spotted the only adult joke in Frozen, I’m guessing you like comedy.”

  “Love it.” I take a tiny sip of coffee. “When we were young, Brian and I were always going to comedy gigs. We saw Billy Connolly do the butt crack routine years before he was famous.”

  Mike looks nonplussed. I remind him: Bloke buries his dead wife outside his house, with her butt exposed. Punch line: “I needed somewhere to park m’ bike.”

  Mike roars with laughter. “I’ve never heard that before.”

  “OK,” I say, “so what do you reckon is the funniest comic line ever?”

  “Easy. When Harry Met Sally, ‘I’ll have what she’s having.’”

  “You think? … It’s not as funny as that line in the Woody Allen moose routine.” I explain the setup: that Allen finds himself at a Jewish fancy dress party with a dead moose. “Then he casually drops in the line ‘The moose mingles.’ Like the moose is a person. What’s more, the moose understands party etiquette.”

  “It’s not as good as ‘I’ll have what she’s having.’ It’s the way the old lady says it. Cracks me up every time.”

  “How can you say that? The idea of a moose socializing at a Jewish party is way funnier. It’s the absurd juxtaposition of ideas.”

  “I disagree.”

  “How can you disagree?”

  “What do you mean ‘how’? It’s easy. I just disagree.”

  “Well, I think you’re wrong.”

  “I’m not wrong. If you polled a load of people and asked them which line they thought was funnier, they’d all choose the When Harry Met Sally line.”

  “How can you possibly know that?”

  “Call it an educated guess.”

  “An educated guess is meaningless.”

  “Not for the purposes of friendly argument.”

  “Yes, for the purposes of friendly argument.”

  He takes a beat. “We’re getting on rather well, aren’t we?”

  “You think?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Laughter bursts out of me. It feels good.

  Despite their best efforts, neither of the boys can get the kite in the air. They’re both frustrated, but not half as frustrated as Rosie, who has come running over to complain that it’s been ages since she had a turn.

  Mike takes her hand. They trot off together, me following. “Come on,” he calls out to the boys. “Let an old man show you how it’s done.”

  Sam hands over the kite and Mike rewinds the string, leaving perhaps thirty or forty feet to play with. Then he starts running downhill into the wind. The kite shudders and dips a few times until finally it billows and soars.

  “He’s done it!”

/>   Fast as he can, Mike lets go of more and more string. The Rhombus Eezie Whiz rises high above the trees. Mike calls to Rosie. She runs toward him and somehow he manages to keep hold of the kite string and maneuver her onto his shoulders.

  “Wheeee!” she yells. “Let me hold it. Let me hold it.”

  Everybody gets a turn. Even me. As I take control, I’m struck by how bright the yellow kite is against the slate sky.

  • • •

  When everybody’s exhausted, we adjourn to the crêpe van for pancakes and hot chocolate. The kids, apparently unaware of the cold, eat theirs on the roundabout in the empty play area. Mike and I stroll back to our bench.

  As we sit down, Mike notices the dedication carved into the back. “In memory of Minnie and Arnold Goldsworthy, who spent many happy hours here, enjoying the sunshine.” He notices the couple’s dates. “Look, they both died in their nineties, within months of each other.”

  “It’s funny—Brian and I used to fantasize about living until we were ancient and then dying together.”

  “I’m sorry. That was thoughtless of me. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “It’s OK. You didn’t. It just triggered a memory, that’s all. It happens a lot. You get used to it.”

  “Believe it or not, it was the same after my wife left me.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me. Sometimes I think grieving can be worse if the person is still alive. No matter how much you fight against it, there’s this vestige of hope that remains to torment you.”

  “That’s exactly how it was.”

  “Well, at least I didn’t have that.”

  “I suppose not.” He rearranges his scarf, which is coming loose, and asks me how I’ve been since my contretemps with Claudia.

  “I’ve calmed down. Thank you for telling me about her problems. It helps to understand.”

  “I’m not sure it makes it any easier, though. I try to distance myself from Claudia’s disputes, but I get to hear about them from Laurence. He says he can talk to me because I understand her. So I end up as his agony aunt. It gets pretty tedious.”

  “I can imagine.”

  He rests his plastic fork on his plate. “Judy, can I ask you something? … I was wondering … Would you like to meet for a drink one evening? I know you’re busy with the children and you probably don’t get much spare time, but …”