Alfie is jabbing me in the side, pulling on my jumper, while I try to find my credit card in my wallet. ‘Do they have cream and marshmallows? Daddy, Daddy, do they? Ask them.’ Then when I don’t respond, he shouts, ‘Ask them, stupid Daddy.’
I take a deep breath and smile at the woman behind the counter, who is unable to disguise the disgust on her face.
Alfie continues to tug on my jumper. ‘Why aren’t you asking them?’
Because the world does not revolve around you and your every whim.
She makes the cappuccinos first, on purpose perhaps, then makes the hot chocolate. As she reaches beneath the counter for something, I internally plead with a god I’m not sure I even believe in to please just save me. It’s not until she lifts up the squirty cream canister, circles it on top of Alfie’s drink and adds a handful of marshmallows that I realize I’ve been holding my breath.
Alfie grabs the drink off the counter, nearly spilling it all over the floor.
‘Um, excuse me, young man, have you forgotten something?’ The woman taps her well-manicured nail on the counter.
Alfie’s eyes search the empty surface in confusion.
‘Your “thank you”, perhaps?’
At first, Alfie just stares at her. Then I nudge him in the back and he mutters a barely audible ‘thanks’ before rushing with his drink to the table.
For maybe five seconds, while Alfie spoons the cream and marshmallows off the top of his drink, he is silent.
‘So do you think Adam’s going to go for your idea?’ I ask Jemma.
‘I think so. He seemed to like it, but then you never know with Adam. He has a tendency to …’
‘Can we go to the playground now?’ Alfie pushes his half-drunk hot chocolate into the middle of the table.
‘No, finish your drink. We’ll go in a minute.’ I push the mug back to him and turn to Jemma. ‘Sorry, what were you saying?’
‘Can we go now?’ Alfie holds out his now almost empty cup.
‘Alfie, Mummy and I are talking. We’ll go to the park when we’ve all finished our drinks.’
Alfie rocks on his chair, nearly toppling back and crashing into the elderly couple sitting behind us. ‘But when will we go? What time?’
Jemma reaches out and puts her hand on top of his. ‘Five minutes, Alfie. Let us just finish these. And keep your voice down a bit, OK, darling? It’s not fair on the other people trying to enjoy a quiet drink.’
‘One, two, three, four, five, six, seven …’
‘Alfie, we can’t have a conversation when you’re counting the seconds. Just wait.’
‘Eight, nine, ten …’
I want to put my hand over his mouth. ‘Alfie, stop.’
‘But I want to go now.’
‘Well, we’re not. And we won’t go to the playground at all if you don’t stop hassling us.’ I shake my head. ‘I’m sure Adam will love it. You can’t seem to go wrong in …’
‘It’s been five minutes. Look.’ Alfie points to the clock on the wall.
I run my hand through my hair, pressing firmly on my skull. I just want to have a conversation with my wife. To enjoy a quiet drink with my family without there being a scene. Is that really too much to ask? ‘We are going to finish our drinks, Alfie. However long that takes.’
‘But I need to know. Just tell me when on the clock.’ His voice is getting even louder and the number of looks coming our way is increasing one by one, like a Mexican wave. ‘What time on the clock?’
Suddenly, Jemma slams her coffee cup down on the table. ‘Alfie, please just stop. I can’t breathe.’ Her eyes are full of tears and she genuinely looks like she’s fighting to catch her breath.
‘I’ll take him out. Finish your coffee.’ I bundle Alfie out of the café, feeling the eyes of the other customers on my back, and Alfie darts straight off to the playground. I should probably chase after him, show him he hasn’t won, but I can’t manage it.
Later, when Jemma has emerged and we are sitting across from each other at a picnic table, surrounded by all the other middle-class parents in their Jack Wills jackets and Joules welly boots, watching Alfie running happily along the rickety wooden bridge and managing to finish our conversation, I realize this is how it should have been. This was what we always pictured.
I remember the exact moment Jemma suggested it – we were on holiday in Dubai. We’d spent the day jet-skiing across the harbour. Jemma had been reluctant at first, but I’d managed to persuade her to give it a go. So there we were, still high on the adrenalin, drinking cocktails in a bar overlooking the glittering skyline.
‘I think it’s time we had a baby.’
All I’d thought about at the time was getting her back to the hotel so we could practise making babies until I was so worn out I couldn’t continue. And after we’d done just that and were lying naked on top of the sheets, watching the golden ceiling fan circle around and around, I agreed it seemed like the right time. We’d been married for nearly seven years. We’d travelled the world, seen amazing things, indulged in more extravagant cuisines than I’d even known existed before I met Jemma. A baby was the next step. The next adventure.
When we discovered she was pregnant with Alfie, we were like two kids on Christmas Eve. I got home from work to find a card addressed to me on the table. Inside, it read: Hello, Daddy, I can’t wait to meet you xxx. At first, I hadn’t got it. But then Jemma had appeared at the bottom of the stairs, tears in her eyes and an expectant smile on her face, holding out the positive pregnancy test. Wrapping my arms around her, I’d cried too and we’d spent the whole evening discussing baby names and whether it would be a boy or a girl and if it would look more like her or me. That night, we made love gently because I was terrified of hurting the baby, even though she assured me it wasn’t possible. We were so happy. It was like surfing a wave of pure optimism. Every week we’d study What to Expect When You’re Expecting and marvel over which fruit our baby was now the same size as, then I’d stop at the supermarket on the way home from work and buy whichever one it was. Once home, I’d hold it up against her tummy and we’d both laugh at the magic of it all.
And then he was born and he never stopped crying. I know babies cry. I’d expected a fair amount of noise and disturbed sleep. But Alfie cried from the moment he woke up until he finally went to sleep, fighting until the last second before he closed his eyes. Well-wishers would stop us in the street or at supermarket checkouts to give us insightful advice like ‘perhaps he needs changing’, as if we didn’t spend every five minutes with our noses stuck up his backside hoping to decipher what the problem was. And colic, what the hell is that? It should be called your-child-never-stops-crying-itus, because that’s all it actually means.
I can still picture Jemma pacing around the room, holding Alfie to her engorged breasts, her nipples cracked and bleeding like someone had taken a cheese grater to them, rocking this supposed bundle of joy and begging him to please feed. But he always just threw his head back and wailed. I’d come home from work to find him in a bouncy chair, screaming, Jemma frantically waving rattles in his face and him hitting them out of her hand. We didn’t have sex. We never went out. Jemma went to bed as soon as Alfie fell asleep and I sat up and watched box set after box set until I fell asleep on the sofa.
One evening, as we hurried some food into our mouths while Alfie lay on his activity blanket, fussing but not quite crying, Jemma stared at me blankly.
‘I’m sorry. I’m going back to work next week. I think it’s for the best.’
My heart sank to the floor. ‘Do you think you could just hold out until he’s one?’
She dropped her eyes and shook her head. ‘I wish I could. I’ve tried, Jake. I’ve really tried. But I just can’t do it any more.’
I knew better than to try to convince her. I’d watched her slowly fade over those past six months with Alfie and I knew that in her mind it wasn’t a choice.
On the day she went back, she asked me to take Alfie to nursery be
fore I went to school. She made out she had an early meeting, but I’m pretty sure she just couldn’t face taking him. She’d done all the research. Found one with a large outdoor space for when he was bigger. A variety of toys and activities. A high staff-to-child ratio.
I parked on the road outside and got Alfie out of his car seat. As if trying to bargain with me even at that young age, he gave me a rare smile and I kissed his soft crinkly forehead. As we passed the floor-to-ceiling window that looked on to the road, all the children stared out at me, their noses touching the glass, and I felt sick.
We went in and I handed Alfie’s nappy bag over to his key worker. She was in her early fifties and had a friendly but somewhat weary demeanour, as if she’d been in the job too long and forgotten what it was she had loved about it in the first place.
‘He gets a bit grumpy when he’s tired or he’s hungry. Well, he’s grumpy quite a lot, but he likes playing peekaboo. That seems to snap him out of it for a few minutes. Oh, and he loves having his nappy changed. It’s strange, but he loves it. We tend to risk leaving his nappy off for as long as possible just for a bit of peace and quiet, but it does have the downside that you occasionally end up with wee in your eye.’
I laughed and she gave me a we’ve-seen-it-all-before smile. ‘Your wife has told us everything, Mr Edwards. Don’t worry. Alfie will be fine. We often find that watching all the other children distracts them from their woes.’
I wanted to scream that he wouldn’t be fine. That she didn’t know my boy one bit. But I handed him into her arms. And as I did, he gave me this look. There was no mistaking it. Pure fear. And all I could think about was my mum. How she’d swapped her swift rise up the career ladder to spend her days stuck in our crumbling Cotswold stone cottage with only me for company. When I look back on my childhood, she’s part of every memory. Whether it’s her delicate hands kneading bread or teaching me how to make pretend food for my action figures out of modelling clay, the feel of her hairy jumper on my face as she read me stories, the warmth of her body as she held me close when I woke up from a bad dream, the smell of her perfume – she always wore the same one – as I sat on the end of her bed and watched her getting ready every morning … she’s always there.
I couldn’t expect Jemma to do the same, to feel how I felt, but there was no way I could leave him there. So I grabbed my son out of the stunned key worker’s arms, took him home, handed in my notice and never returned to nursery.
But now, as Alfie repeatedly runs over to check whether anyone has touched his special box while all the other children chase around the playground without a care in the world, I wonder whether it would’ve been better for everyone if I’d ignored the guilt pulsing through me, the ridiculous sense of duty, and left him there, got in my car and driven to work.
* * *
Jemma rolls over in our king-size bed so that she is lying behind me, her bare breasts lightly touching my back. She starts to stroke my leg, softly running her fingers up and down my thigh. This is how Jemma always initiates sex. It’s been a long time since we’ve even had sex, let alone since Jemma last initiated it, but I’m in no doubt that that is her intention and her touch makes me instantly hard.
‘Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?’
She shrugs coyly. ‘If you fancy it?’
‘What do you think?’
It starts well. My foreplay seems effective. She’s making the right noises. Showing all the right signs. It’s the same old pattern, of course, but we’ve been married for nearly fourteen years so that’s to be expected. Unlike normal, she doesn’t take a lot of warming up and jumps on me pretty quick. We do it in the usual position, on our sides facing each other. I’m close to coming within a few minutes (to be fair, it’s been a long time) but then I open my eyes and she looks so vacant, staring over my shoulder at the wall, that I stop thrusting.
‘Are you OK?’
Jemma looks at me, as if she’d forgotten I was even there. ‘Yeah, I’m fine. You nearly there?’
I know she’s not into it and that I should just stop, but it’s been so long I don’t have the willpower.
‘Yeah. Do I need to pull out?’
‘No, it’s fine. My period’s due in a day or two. We’re safe.’
We get back into our tried-and-tested rhythm and I manage to finish. It feels amazing for about six seconds, but then I just feel empty. Not a good, satiated kind of empty. A regretful, sad empty. I pull out of her and roll on to my back.
‘You want me to finish you off?’
Jemma curls up like a hedgehog that’s been poked. ‘No, it’s OK. It was lovely, but I’m tired.’
I imagine this is how it would feel to have sex with a prostitute. I don’t know why Jemma initiated it, but her desire for me certainly faded fast. I know I’m out of practice but I didn’t think my performance was that dismal.
She reaches into her drawer and takes out her eye mask. ‘Night.’
‘Night.’
I pick up my book and try to read but my eyes just scan the pages, so I give up and switch off the lamp. The light from the moon sneaks through the slats in our shutters and illuminates the side of her face.
‘Do you ever wonder what it would’ve been like if we’d had a second child?’ she asks, turning towards me and pushing her eye mask up on to her forehead.
‘I don’t know. I guess. Maybe.’
Despite initially having plans for at least two children, once we’d had Alfie, Jemma never brought up the topic of another child, so neither did I. Just dealing with him was more than I could cope with most days. Then the years passed and Alfie was suddenly six and it had become an unvoiced agreement that he was going to be an only child.
‘I do. I think about it a lot.’
Really? The last thing I can imagine Jemma thinking about is another child. She barely seems to think about the one we’ve got.
‘You’ve never said anything.’
‘Because I was scared about what you’d say.’
‘That I wouldn’t want one?’
‘Maybe. Or maybe that you would. I don’t know.’
‘Do you want one?’
The pillow rustles as Jemma shakes her head. ‘No. Not now.’
‘But there was a time when you did?’
‘Sometimes. On the good days. And occasionally on the bad. But no, not really.’
It’s completely unfair, considering I don’t want one either, but it makes me sad that my wife no longer wants to procreate with me.
‘Why on the bad days?’
‘Because maybe another child would be different.’
I’ve thought the exact same thing on more than one occasion, but hearing it said out loud makes me realize what a terrible, ungrateful thought it is.
I reach over to hold Jemma’s hand but I accidentally brush her thigh and she flinches, misreading my intentions. We lie in silence for a while, completely stationary, as if we’re afraid to move. Then she props herself up on her pillow.
‘Do you think we should take him back to the doctor again?’
I can’t help but expel a deep sigh.
‘I just think maybe it would help,’ she continues, undeterred. ‘They could give us some strategies to deal with him better.’
I shake my head. ‘They’re just going to say it’s our parenting, Jem. He’s fine at school, a bit quiet maybe, a bit socially awkward, but he’s not causing them any problems.’
Jemma sits more upright, leaning against the headboard. ‘But I recently read this article about children with autism masking at school. It’s really common, apparently.’
‘He’s not autistic, Jem. I think we just need to accept we were blessed with a difficult one. Or maybe we’re just getting everything wrong. Who knows?’
Jemma nods, settles back under the covers and pulls her eye mask down over her eyes. ‘I should get some sleep. I’ve got a lot of work to do tomorrow.’
‘OK. Good night. See you in the morning.’
> I turn away from her, staring at the stripes of light on the wall and wondering what else she thinks about that she doesn’t tell me. I’m sure we used to know all of each other’s thoughts, except for the really dark ones that no one ever shares with anyone. We’d been so close, but now we lie in the bed with a gap between us as wide as the Pacific Ocean. And it suddenly dawns on me how much I miss her.
Alfie
I open the lid of my special box and check the conkers are still there. I put them in the box last night and then hid it under the bed. I don’t think anyone could get under there while I’m asleep but I want to check just in case a monster or someone sneaked in through the front door. Daddy says it’s very safe here but Mummy makes me bring my bike in because someone might steal it and I don’t know why a bad man would steal my bike but not come in the house and steal my conkers.
They’re still there. I take them out of the box and count them. There’s sixty-three and one in the shell so that’s sixty-four. My conkers feel really smooth. I rub them on my face. I love them. They are my favourite thing as well as my Lego. Daddy says I’m obsessed with them. Obsessed means when I get something in my head and I can’t stop thinking about it and talking about it. Daddy is mean to me when I get obsessed. He shouts and tells me to go and do something else like a normal child. I think he means like the other children along the street or at school. Maybe they don’t have special things like I do. I like it when my favourite things get stuck in my head. Then there’s no room for the worries. Except when I get obsessed with things I can’t have. I don’t like that because it goes round and round in my head until Daddy gets it for me and then I feel better. But sometimes he says no and that makes me cross and then I cry and my head hurts. I hate Daddy when he says no. Sometimes my brain tells me I want him to be dead so he can’t say no and I can make all the decisions like a grown-up. I don’t think I want Daddy to be dead because I love him, but sometimes my brain says things like that. I don’t like it when my brain does that. I think maybe I’m Horrid Henry because he’s naughty too. I don’t want to be him but sometimes my brain tells me I am.
Saturdays at Noon Page 6