by Jayne Buxton
Just to add to the confusion, Jack, who has declined to sit in the cart and is wandering perilously close to its front wheel instead, chooses this moment, when I’m trying to decide between lamb and chicken, to ask me a pressing question.
“Mum, do you know where all the poop goes when it leaves the toilet?”
“What? Oh, no I don’t.” I have a feeling he’s going to tell me.
“I’ll tell you. It goes out of a big, ginormous pipe and drives— like if we were driving to the beach—it drives all the way to the sea and goes into the sea. And that’s why the sea is so dirty.”
“Hmm. I’m sure it gets cleaned up before it gets into the sea, Jack.” I say, peering at the chickens in an effort to find one with some actual meat on it.
“No it doesn’t! It doesn’t!” Occasionally he gets like this if you disagree with something he’s claiming to have learned at school. It’s usually best to back down.
“Goodness. Well that’s a big problem, isn’t it?” Then I go for the interception. “Now Jack, what veggies shall we have tomorrow when Daddy comes to lunch?”
“Why is Daddy coming to lunch?” interjects Millie, who has so far been an angel, helpfully running to the ends of aisles to pick up a bottle of ketchup or a bag of rice.
“Because we thought it would be nice to spend some time together as a family for a change.”
That’s right, isn’t it?
“We are still a family, even if Daddy and I don’t live together anymore.”
That’s right, too, I suppose. Please, please don’t anyone ask me why Daddy and I aren’t living together anymore. Not again.
“Oh.” Millie is working hard to absorb this information. “Will we do it every week?”
“I don’t think so, honey. Perhaps every now and again.”
I then send both children off in search of their vegetables of choice. In the meantime, I go in search of peanut butter in the condiments aisle, noticing with some satisfaction that Cottage Garden Foods’ marmalade brands have the same shelf space as both Frank Cooper’s and the premium brand with the French name. Millie returns with a head of broccoli and some carrots. Jack comes back with a large object that looks a little like an oversize artichoke.
“Jack, I’m not sure I know how to cook that.”
“But Mummy, you said we could choose anything we wanted. This looks interesting.”
“You’re right. Put it in,” I say resignedly. We are almost at the end of the expedition and we haven’t had a major breakdown or tantrum yet, so I must count myself lucky. Stopping to pick up some wine, Diet Cokes and apple juice on the way, we head to one of the checkout counters.
I’m in luck, as I’ve pushed my cart up to a checkout at which there is already a keen-looking packer standing waiting with several open plastic bags. “Would you like me to load the items on, or pack them into bags, ma’am?”
Gosh. I’ve never been aware of such an option. “I’ll load them on thanks. You can put them into bags.”
And thus we commence. When the cart is half empty, Jack insists on standing in it to help unload the remaining items, and it takes every ounce of my reserve to prevent myself from screaming at him when he stands on the organic vine tomatoes. I’m distracted from the observation of any further mishaps by the sight of the packer’s expression as he picks up the items at the other end of the counter and places them purposefully into plastic bags; it veers between mild amusement and outright disapproval. He’s classified me as a shopper with a cluttered mind and a poor sense of organization, I can tell. I’ve had dairy mixed up with fresh fruit, and raw meat sitting alongside cereal boxes in my cart. And the bread has clearly been sitting at the bottom of it all, directly under the bags of flour, because all three loaves have been squashed into a warped V-shape.
With the last of the items on the counter and Jack now having moved to the other end to assist the officious packer, I begin the search for my debit card, which has found a hiding place amidst the dozens of receipts I have stashed in my wallet. I finally locate the card and vow to do a major clear-out of my wallet when I get home. Then I look up and across at the next counter, and there he is.
Tom is loading food items onto the counter as Grace sits eating a digestive biscuit in the cart. I’m completely taken aback by the sight of him. Luckily, Millie intervenes.
“Mummy, there’s Grace! Look.”
“Oh yes, so it is.”
Millie waves at Grace, who waves back, leading Tom to turn around to see who she’s waving at. He sees Millie first, then his eyes find me and he grins widely. Not the fixed grin of someone who’s wondering how they can escape without being drawn into a long conversation, but a grin that says he’s genuinely pleased to see me.
“How are you?” he says over the head of the checkout girl in front of me.
“Glad this is over,” I say.
“Me too,” he replies.
My groceries are all bagged up now and I’m going through the payment routine, getting my parking ticket stamped, stuffing my card back into my already overstuffed wallet. All the while I’m talking myself through my next move. Will I wait while he finishes paying or will that be too obvious? Can I find an excuse to stall us here—perhaps by searching for some item of food to keep Jack quiet?
Then I remember that I’m through with ducks, and think that perhaps I ought to just wave and disappear nonchalantly. But that feels wrong. There’s an opportunity here, and for some reason I think it must not be missed.
So I move the cart into the aisle at the end of the counter and begin to linger with purpose. “Jack, would you like one of those chocolate biscuits you chose?”
“Ooh yes,” he shouts, jumping up and down.
“Me too,” says Millie.
I begin rooting around amongst the bags, genuinely unsure as to which one contains the chocolate biscuits. Sure enough, the effort takes long enough for Tom to finish paying and steer his cart toward us. Who needs to carry a prop when you have children, I think.
“I’ve never seen you here before,” says Tom. “Usually you spot the same old faces every week.”
“I used to shop here, actually,” I say mendaciously. “Then I decided to try Tesco, but I might come back here occasionally for a change. They do a great line in chocolate biscuits.” I point at Jack, who appears to have sprouted a second pair of lips, large and chocolate-covered, within seconds of getting hold of a biscuit.
Tom laughs and turns to indicate Grace, who is working her way through another biscuit. “That’s why I stick to digestives.”
Millie starts tickling Grace, then pretends to steal her biscuit. Tom and I stand watching the two of them. I wonder if he is just enjoying the moment, or searching, like me, for a way to prolong it.
Obviously, it was the former. “Well, I’ll see you around,” he says suddenly.
“Oh, yes. See you. Maybe at the park.” I hope that didn’t sound too desperate.
Tom grins and wheels Grace away toward the exit. I engage myself in restacking the bags in the cart so that the top few won’t fall off when we walk through the parking lot, trying to pretend (for whom?, it occurs to me) that I’m unconcerned about Tom’s quick departure and apparent disinterest.
It’s probably for the best anyway. Definitely for the best. I’ve no time for any more ducks, and he’s probably not ready to be anything else. Someone who lost their wife just a year ago is not going to be in any emotional shape to deal with someone new. Someone who’s barely recovered from her own loss. He would be comparing all the time, and I’m sure I’d never measure up. His wife was probably perfect. Pretty and kind, and likely clever too.
I don’t really need that, do I?
CHAPTER 29
MAIN SQUEEZE
I used to cook Sunday lunch all the time. Roast pork with crackling. Lamb with rosemary and garlic. Toad in the hole. I’ve done the lot. But it never reduced me to the blithering wreck I am today. And this is just a roast chicken.
Millie has
helped with the broccoli and carrots and the crumble mixture for the top of the apples. Jack’s monstrous artichoke thingy sits untouched on the windowsill. The disastrous bit is the potatoes, which I’ve boiled to the point of disintegration. They will make awful mashers. I’m contemplating running out to the Sommerfield’s at the petrol station to see if they sell any of those frozen ones, but in the end I decide to just peel another batch and start again. This I do while Jack and Millie set the table and I eye up the bottle of white wine on the counter, which I plan to open as soon as would be deemed respectable. I figure 11:45 will be just on the right side of borderline proper.
When the big hand hits the nine I dive at the bottle like the proverbial man in the desert. The first two sips have a marvelously steadying effect, of which I’m immediately glad. I need to be calm and unruffled when David arrives; everything must seem relaxed and pleasant for Jack and Millie. (I realize that this is asking a lot, given that all across the country, perfect, unbroken families will be arguing over the preparation of the roast, and more than a few people will be storming off to the pub to cool down.)
At the sound of the doorbell I find myself standing rigid and fixed to my spot in front of the second batch of boiling potatoes. Using the excuse of needing to watch them carefully so as not to over-boil them again, I send Millie to answer the door, something my paranoia about lurking strangers normally disallows.
“It’s okay. I know it will be Daddy,” I reassure her.
From the kitchen I can hear Millie’s squeals of delight as David enters, followed by the sound of Jack’s simulated gunfire. Jack loves to greet people by shooting them. It’s a sign of affection.
All three of them walk into the kitchen together, Jack in one of David’s arms, Millie hanging on to the other. Millie is lit up like a Christmas tree, and I’m struck by what an enormous thing this must be for her. The two people she loves most in the world, having lunch together. I hope she’s not seeing it as a sign of great things to come, but I have a feeling she might be.
“Hi, Ally,” says David. “Smells good.”
“Hi. Should do. Jack and Millie have been working hard. You should see the crumble.”
“Really? Have you two been helping Mummy? That’s great.”
“Wine?” I raise my glass questioningly.
“Sure. Why not?” he says, plonking Jack down and moving over to the back doors to look out over the minute garden, which is a mess. The bad thing about early spring is that everything starts growing like fury before you’ve even contemplated getting to grips with it.
“Garden looks nice,” he says.
“Stop it. I haven’t had much time.”
“No, no. I’m serious. It looks nice.”
Who is he trying to kid? Is he trying out some new line in flattery, complimenting me on my domestic achievements?
There’s only so long you can stare at a garden that’s fifteen feet square and overrun by early spring weeds and bedraggled daffodils. So, once I’ve drained the potatoes and left them to cool we move into the sitting room. Jack and Millie want to play cards before lunch. We settle on Snap for the sake of Jack, which disappoints Millie. She’s learned to play rummy and wants to show David.
“You and I will play rummy later, Mill,” he says, tousling her hair.
Snap fills the room with noise and prevents David and me from having to talk too much. Jack fills in whatever silences exist with questions and stories that seem to emerge from nowhere but are perfectly in context to him.
“Dad, do you think darkest Peru would be a good place to go hunting for bears?”
“Not sure, Jack. Why?”
“Because when I’m older, say seventeen, I want to go hunting with you. For bears. We could stop off in cowboy land and buy some proper guns.”
“And where’s cowboy land?” David inquires.
“You know. Mexico. Or Nexus.”
“You mean Texas.”
“Yeah, Texas. Can we go, Dad? When I’m seventeen?”
“Sounds like a great idea,” agrees David. Seventeen is a long way off, and hopefully Jack won’t be interested in guns or bears when it arrives.
David and I exchange a glance over Jack’s head, and David stifles a smile. This is what I’ve missed. This very thing. There’s nothing quite so wonderful as sharing amazement and amusement at one’s offspring with the other parent of those offspring. Nothing. I’d thought I would never experience it again. But maybe there’s hope for David and me. Maybe we can evolve our divorce into something that can accommodate shared experiences like this.
After the game of Snap we all busy ourselves with last-minute lunch preparations. David mashes the potatoes—the one culinary task at which he is actually quite adept—while I carve the chicken and attempt to make gravy. It doesn’t taste quite right, so I splash in another glass of white wine for good measure before refilling our wineglasses. Millie puts the napkins on the table and lights a candle while Jack readies himself for the meal by placing his guns on either side of his plate.
The conversation over lunch is mostly child-centered, which is fine with me. Millie tells David how much she is looking forward to her new school, to which statement Jack protests that he doesn’t see why he should have to go to school at all. Then we talk about the impending arrival of Millie’s rabbit. Her birthday is just over a month away, so I’m reminded that I must get my skates on. Do you have to order rabbits, or can you expect to just walk into a pet shop and find the perfect one? Jack asks when he will be allowed to have a pet. A gerbil is what he has in mind.
“I don’t like gerbils, Jack,” I say. “The tails give me the creeps. What about a hamster?”
“No. Harry has a gerbil,” says Jack, digging in.
“Cowboys don’t have gerbils, Jack,” says David helpfully. “Hamsters are more of a cowboy thing.”
“Oh,” says Jack, sinking into deep thought. I’m surprised by David. His usual approach is more heavy-handed. He says no and that’s it; the children are expected to accept it. This imaginative persuasiveness is new.
We decide that we are all too full to eat the crumble straight-away, so Jack and Millie are excused and run into the sitting room to watch Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, which I’ve rented for the occasion. This was the movie they settled on as a compromise between The Parent Trap (Millie’s choice) and The Magnificent Seven (Jack’s). I was quick to discourage The Parent Trap on this occasion; a story of divorced parents whose love affair is rekindled by the machinations of their daughters would make uncomfortable viewing today.
Sitting at the table alone, David and I are momentarily quiet. As ever loathing a gaping silence, and relying on wine-induced confidence to carry me through, I ask David about Chantal.
“So, Millie tells me you’re not going to see Chantal anymore.”
“Oh did she? Yeah. That’s true. Just didn’t work out. Seeing her with the children was a big step, and it put everything in perspective I guess. She’s not the woman I thought she was.”
“And what kind of woman was that?”
I don’t really want to know, so I’m glad when he deflects my question. “Anyway, you seem really well. How are things?”
“I am well, actually. Work is going really well now. We’ve got a good campaign coming out and I’m just much happier with the whole idea of working for Cottage Garden Foods than I was a year ago. I think I’ve come around to the idea that marmalade isn’t so bad after all. I’m not even sure I’d want to be back in the glamour industry.”
“Hey, Charles told me he heard you on the radio. Said you were pretty impressive.” This is Charles of Sara and Charles, who we used to see as a couple.
“I don’t know about that, but it was fun. Anyway, I’m kind of determined to enjoy work a bit more. Otherwise it sort of colors everything else. And everything else is pretty good really. We’re all fine.”
“Happy?” he says. The question pierces like a skewer.
“Happy? Yes. I guess I am.”
&nb
sp; “Good,” he says, but his face betrays something that looks to me like regret. Or have I imagined it?
“Shall we eat our crumble in the sitting room, and watch the movie with the kids?” I ask, anxious to escape the disturbing undercurrents in this room.
“Sure. That would be great,” he says downing the last of the wine from his glass. “Any more where this came from?”
There is, and I pour him some before dishing our four servings of crumble and ice cream. We both carry these through to the sitting room, where Jack is staring wide-eyed as the magic car makes its first flight. We end up sitting at either end of the sofa, with the children squashed between us, all of us trying to eat apple crumble without elbowing the life out of anyone else or dropping ice cream onto our laps.
We pass the next hour and a half like this. It’s raining outside, so on one suggests a walk or a bike ride. About halfway through the movie David and Jack both break out into laughter while Millie and I sit straight-faced. I look over at David expecting him to be transfixed on the screen, but instead our eyes lock together. His soulful brown eyes, the ones I once told Mel were deeper and more luscious than a bowl of melted dairy milk, are staring at me. They linger for a few moments and there’s nothing remotely accidental about it. When I look away we both carry on as before, being alternately amused and irritated by Dick Van Dyke. But we both know that David meant something by that look and that it has changed things.
After the movie David keeps his promise to Millie, and they play rummy for a while. I’m happy to tidy the kitchen because it gives me some time to clear my head a little and helps dispel the leftover effects of all the wine. I return to the sitting room just as David is rising from his kneeling position in front of the coffee table.