The Playground

by Jane Shemilt

  “Wow.” He takes a bite. “We never make anything like this at home.”

  She glances at the coins of hardening cake mixture on the stovetop, the sticky bowls in the sink. Grace had been wearing a suit at drop-off, makeup and nail polish, one hand neatly bandaged. Eve had felt dowdy by comparison, but Martin is smiling at her as if she wasn’t sweaty, with her apron around her waist and hair in her eyes, possibly a dab of flour on one cheek.

  “We finished with a chapter from a novel and Blake predicted precisely what happens in the end.”

  “Which one?” A storyteller, he leans to hear.

  “Lord of the Flies.”

  “Isn’t that a bit—”

  “Dark? It was only the first chapter. Izzy brought it in; I don’t think she had any idea.”

  “You obviously brought out the best in him.” He nods, taking the second cake and inspecting the empty plate. “Unusual.” He traces the ellipse on the glass, the black circle in the middle. “A hand-painted plate; are you an artist as well as everything else?”

  “It’s from a village in Greece.” She laughs. “The eye is supposed to keep people safe from the glance of a blue-eyed intruder. I bought lots.”

  “Do they work?”

  “We’re okay so far.”

  “Gosh, a dimple. I haven’t seen one of those for years.”

  The blood rises in her cheeks. It’s been so long since anyone mentioned her looks, she’s forgotten how to manage a compliment.

  “Sorry, the writer in me. I notice faces.” He puts the plate back on the table. “Where’s the village?”

  “In the Peloponnese. We have a house out there.” Does that sound like boasting to him? She never knows; she begins to bite her nails as she did when she was a child. “It’s very run-down,” she adds quickly. “The garden’s wild.”

  “Sounds exactly like my kind of place.” His eyes meet hers; his smile deepens.

  “Let’s find your children.” She gets to her feet, flustered. “It’s time I woke my son.”

  “Grace didn’t tell me you had a baby.”

  “He’s almost three, but he seems younger; he hasn’t started speaking yet. I’m worried it could be dyslexia, like his sister Poppy.” She begins to bite her nails again. “I think my husband might have had it as a child; it can run in families; I expect you know that.” She’s talking too much, drinking in his interest the way you swallow water when you hadn’t realized how thirsty you were.

  “I didn’t say a word till I was five.” Martin grins. “I’ve made up for it since. I wouldn’t worry; he’ll be fine.”

  He’s kind, the sort of man who understands. “I’ll introduce you.” She leads him outside, but when they reach the little makeshift bed under the willow tree, the heaped nest of blankets is empty. Ash has disappeared; his red tractor is lying on its side in the grass.

  “He’ll be down in the garden,” she says breathlessly. “He must have gone to find the others. They’ll be together somewhere.”

  Martin follows, gazing around as she walks rapidly toward the meadow, passing Igor at work under the hood of a large green truck. His dusty-looking head is close to the engine, blue overalls smeared with oil.

  “Did you happen to see which way the children went, Igor? I’ve lost track of Ash.” Her cheeks burn. Eric was right. She should keep a closer eye on the children; perhaps she should have kept them inside as he’d said.

  Igor lifts his head and stares at her then Martin. He frowns and shrugs heavily. She hurries along the path Eric mowed earlier, Martin keeping pace.

  “It’s as though we’re in a fairy tale.” Martin stares at the donkeys in their field as they pass, and at the pond glittering in the sun. “I’ve never seen donkeys in a London garden before; it’s impossible to believe we’re in the middle of a city.”

  “My father bought this place for the garden; he was mad about trees. He taught us to ride on those donkeys.”

  “It must have been fantastic to grow up with so much freedom.”

  “We didn’t; the nanny kept us on a leash.” It sounds like a joke, though it wasn’t funny. She doesn’t talk about it much, but Martin feels like a friend somehow and she hasn’t many. She lost touch with her old crowd years ago; Eric didn’t like them, he found them phony. Family is enough for him, family is everything, but she misses her old friends at times.

  “Actually, Eric thinks our kids have too much freedom.”

  “Is it possible to have too much?”

  He calls it neglect, but she doesn’t tell Martin that; she pushes the gate open and they are immediately in the little wood. The quiet is dense, like entering a soundproof room with thick green walls.

  “Poppy! Sorrel!” The words don’t carry very far; perhaps Eric’s right, they should cut down some trees. “They’ll be here somewhere.” It’s dark under the crowded branches, too much undergrowth, so many thorns. She begins to hurry, her feet catching on roots, her breath hot in her throat. For a place where the children spend most of their time, she doesn’t come here often enough.

  “Girls?”

  A soft giggle comes from the right, the red of Poppy’s jacket flares beneath a young horse chestnut tree. She steps closer, Martin holding aside the brambles. The children are grouped in a patch of green-gold shade; Ash is sleeping on Izzy’s lap. The young girl is leaning forward, her body sheltering his, her long hair brushing his face. She is talking quietly, telling a story from the look on their faces. Poppy is lying in front of her playing with Ash’s foot, Blake is flat on the ground with mud on his face. Charley has her back against a tree, her eyes on the puppy in her lap, Sorrel near her.

  “See?” Martin whispers. “Babes in the wood.”

  “I hope not,” she whispers back, light-headed with relief. “We don’t want them to starve to death under the leaves.”

  His snort of laughter is so loud the children look up, except for Ash, who is sleeping, and Izzy, who smiles.

  “Thanks, Izzy. Hello, my little one.” She bends to take Ash. He feels warm in his green onesie; he whimpers then settles again, his cheek against hers, his mouth on her neck. There are little scratches on his hands, new ones, easy to tell, she knows his skin by heart. She kisses Sorrel’s head and reaches for Poppy, who moves out of range, flushing angrily. The children get to their feet, they seem dazed. Blake looks cross. Martin rumples his hair but he shakes him off, moving closer to Izzy. Poppy maneuvers herself to her other side. Sorrel takes Charley’s hand; allegiances shaping up.

  “I should have been watching more closely.” Eve leads the way out of the woods, back into the warm sunshine of the meadow. She holds Ash tightly; the warm weight against her chest settles her heart.

  “I lost Blake in the supermarket when he was just four. I found him in the confectionery aisle tipping Maltesers into his mouth from two packets at once. I’m not sure Grace has ever forgiven me.”

  She glances at his rueful expression and smiles. He’s nice; a nice man as she’d thought. Near the house Igor has closed the hood and is leaning against the green truck, arms folded, watching their progress.

  “We found Ash. He wasn’t lost after all,” she tells him.

  Igor stares back. “Aha. So that’s why I couldn’t find him under the hood.” His lips twist into a grin, a joke of sorts. Sorrel giggles and waves to him. Eve steers her toward the house, feeling sick; the image of her son’s warm body crammed into the greasy workings of a truck is vivid.

  Farther down the drive a woman steps from a red sports car, a slim blond with a scarf around her neck and her hair pulled tightly off her face. As she walks toward them, Eve recognizes Melissa, but she looks different today; thinner than Eve remembers, more tense.

  “Am I late?”

  “Not at all. They were all down in the garden. Your daughter’s been working hard and having a lovely time.” Eve puts an arm around Izzy, who is staring at her mother from under her bangs; her smile has vanished.

  “Has she?” A tremor runs over Melissa’s
lovely face; Eve wonders for a moment if she is going to cry. “Thank you, that’s good to hear.”

  “Come in.” Eve gestures to the house. “I can show you what she’s done.”

  “I’d love to see it . . .” Melissa glances at the house, then at her daughter as if uncertain.

  “I’ll make us some tea.” Eve smiles. “There’s homemade cake.”

  “Actually, I better go.” Melissa’s face seems to tighten. “Would it be okay to scan and send her work instead?”

  “Of course,” Eve says smoothly, masking her disappointment; there will be other chances to get to know Melissa, lots of them. “See you on Sunday, maybe?”

  “I’ll have more time then,” Melissa replies. “Say thank you, Izzy.”

  Izzy follows her mother to the car without a word, wrenches open the door, and climbs in. The children watch the car drive away.

  “She didn’t even say goodbye.” Sorrel sounds disappointed. Eve puts an arm around her and cuddles her into her side. She looks for Poppy, but she has gone back into the house.

  Blake is scuffling the gravel of the drive into little piles with his feet; Charley leans against her father looking tired.

  “Your wife must be wondering where you are,” Eve says, feeling guilty for keeping him so long.

  “Oh, Grace won’t be back yet, she works full-time. It’ll be me bringing the children from now on,” he replies.

  Eve’s heart lifts at the thought. It had been so easy to talk to him; their conversation had slid seamlessly into a place in her mind that must have been ready and waiting.

  The wrinkles around Martin’s eyes deepen as he nods goodbye. “Thanks for the magic,” he says.

  Grace

  “Fairyland? What the hell, Martin?”

  She shouldn’t raise her voice or stand with her hands on her hips, a parody of a shrewish wife, but he looks so complacent. Stories. Homemade cake. A day trip then, not a workshop, money gone to waste. She is tired, so tired she can hardly stand. The website had crashed at work, a drunk guest had been insulting, then a woman told her to collect her suitcase as though she were a porter, not a receptionist. She said nothing in case she lost her temper, but then the woman complained about her silence anyway.

  “It’s imperative we engage with the clients.” The hotel manager, a plump little man, had inspected her face and, more slowly, her body. She had walked away, swallowing rage.

  “They had fun,” Martin replies mildly. “That’s the main thing.”

  “The main thing is his work; he’ll have exams to pass one day.”

  “You don’t have to follow every rule in the book—”

  “Yes, we do.” She turns away and walks into the kitchen; he should know why Blake and Charley have to follow rules, that she does too. Ten minutes ago the tall bloke had stepped out from a doorway in front of her as she reached the entrance of the building.

  “What do you think you’re doing here, bitch?” he’d muttered, standing close enough for her to catch that nail-polish smell of cocaine.

  She walked around him, didn’t reply, didn’t look back, and didn’t run, though her heart had been thudding in her mouth. It wasn’t dark, she was wearing work clothes, her hair was tied back, the keys had been ready in her hand. She’d been following every bloody rule in the book; her grandfather had made her learn them by heart. The youth laughed as he watched her go, the type who didn’t give a fuck about rules.

  Martin follows her to the kitchen and pours two glasses of wine, offers her one.

  “We can’t afford wine.”

  “We ought to celebrate, it’s been a good day.”

  “Let’s celebrate when something good actually happens.” She dumps the dirty supper plates and forks in the sink and begins to wash them.

  “The kids had a great time and I wrote five hundred words this morning.” He raises his glass, smiling. “Isn’t that good enough?”

  “Good as in when your next book sells,” she continues, scrubbing the forks. Or my first one does, she adds silently.

  He doesn’t reply; there’s nothing to say. He knows the prize money is almost gone and her earnings are barely enough. She puts the cutlery on the draining board, takes the wet clothes from the washing machine and hangs them on the rack. She doesn’t want to discuss her writing, not yet, it feels safer that way. She pulls the broom from the cupboard and starts sweeping up the crumbs.

  “Stop for a second, Gracie. Eve’s kitchen was a mess, but it was kind of relaxing.”

  “They have the space for mess; you have to be rich to be that untidy.” She can’t remember the last time he picked up a broom, though that was the deal. He’d write for now and keep house, she’d go to work, then they’d swap. She’s too tired to go into it all again now. She sweeps the dust into a pan, tips it in the bin, replaces the broom, and walks past him into Charley’s room. Her daughter is asleep and snoring. Grace kisses her cheek, strokes her hair, and eases The Sheep-Pig from her grip, puts it on the table, and turns off the light.

  Blake is sprawled on his back; he’s fallen asleep with a streak of mud on his face. She sits on his bed and watches him, feeling her face soften. If she’d gotten back earlier he might have told her something about his day, she could have said good night. She’s missing things, important things; she’s not around to see anything the kids do, or even hear about it afterward. There must be a way to arrange life better but she hasn’t found it yet. Blake’s toes are still hooked into his sneakers; as she inches them off, a penknife falls out, a small metal one, cold in her hands. She flicks it open, feeling sick; the blade is surprisingly long. She closes it and turns off the light. In the sitting room, Martin is watching television.

  “Look what I found in Blake’s shoe.” She puts the knife on the table. “God knows what he’s doing with a knife.” She sits close to him for the warmth, shivering a little as if with shock.

  He picks it up, looking bemused. “Where did it come from?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Maybe a friend lent it to him—I used to love playing with penknives at his age.”

  “It’s completely different now; the police came into school the other day to give them a talk about knife crime. He’ll be in real trouble if he’s found with this, perhaps he’s in trouble already.”

  “Blake’s a good boy, there’ll be an explanation. I’ll talk to him and get the story.” He puts his arm around her. “Leave this to me, Gracie. He’ll be fine, you’ll see. You look exhausted; come to bed.”

  She puts the knife in her bag where Blake won’t think to look. It slips down out of sight, beneath the coin purse and the keys, her wallet, makeup, the spare tampon. Maybe Martin’s right; questions might be better coming from him, man to man.

  In bed Martin turns toward her with his smile. “Hello, stranger,” he murmurs as his arms wrap around her. There’s always this, she tells herself as their faces meet, this at the end of the day, when they are together and warm and everything else melts away.

  But it isn’t quite the end of the day; once he’s asleep, she gets out of bed again and sits down to write at the kitchen table. Now and again she stares out at the trains passing beyond the community gardens, beads of light traveling in the dark. Thousands of miles away the sun is rising in the mountains in the north of Zimbabwe where her grandfather lived on his farm. He used to tell her to walk slowly, look carefully in case you miss a sick calf or the moment when the maize is ripe for harvest. She wishes now she’d asked him how the hell you do that while you fit in everything else; no one walks slowly in London, not when you have a job and kids or hostile youths near your home. She misses him, she misses her whole family, the neighbors she used to have, all the friends. Life had seemed so much easier back home.

  “What do you think you’re doing here, bitch?” she whispers to her reflection in the window.

  Melissa

  “You actually look scared.” Paul gets out of his chair and comes around the table with the wine; he seems amused
. His suit is tighter, his high cheekbones obscured by new padding. “Were you frightened she’d force you to eat it?”

  She should never have mentioned the cake. Perhaps she should have accepted Eve’s invitation; she could have brought some home with her. He might secretly love cake. He might consume it on his plane journeys or maybe his secretary smuggles it into the office for him, hidden in damp paper napkins. The last secretary used to ask for him in breathy whispers on the phone. Melissa didn’t really mind; she didn’t last long, they never do.

  “Izzy’s going to show me her story after supper.” He pours himself another glass then sits down. He’s drinking more than he used to, but she can’t possibly point it out.

  “Oh, Eve was going to send it to me.” How childish that sounds.

  “She must have sent it to Izzy instead.” He smiles, head to one side with a mischievous look, the one she fell in love with years ago. “Does it matter, Melly?”

  The light is harsh in here, the new decanters glitter on the sideboard, the lilies cast stark shadows over the tablecloth. He likes to examine what he’s eating in the same way he’ll examine her later. He wants to see what he’s doing.

  “No, it doesn’t matter.” She’d wanted to see Izzy’s work for once, but she shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter at all.”

  Paul begins to eat rapidly. “I can’t remember when I last saw her like this, she’s really excited.”

  Izzy had been silent in the car on the way home but her eyes had looked different, hopeful somehow, brighter, as though a light had been switched on inside. Melissa picks up her knife and fork and starts to cut her beef into very small pieces, pushing them under the lettuce. “Tell me about your project.”

  “It’s not mine yet. It’s a shareholder decision.” He shrugs. “It could take a while. Everyone was there, plus the other architects, of course, the competition.”

  “Everyone?”

  “Senior partners, their wives. The odd girlfriend.” He holds the wine in his mouth before swallowing, then he smiles. “They loved my design, especially the windows. When it’s built, the atrium will dominate the Seine . . .”