by Kerrie Noor
“There are still a few bushes,” I muttered.
Steven shoved the brush into the holder, squirted way too much bleach into the toilet, and began scrubbing again.
“It didn’t ride a bike. It was in that other movie about a couple in a house alone, and . . .”
He stopped, brush dripping. “Why don’t you read Terry Pratchett then? That will take your mind off things.”
“Too complicated. I can’t even read a recipe, let alone a plot as complicated as this house’s plumbing.”
“What about a Woman’s Weekly then?”
“I hate Woman’s Weekly.”
He tossed the brush into its holder. “I hate Stephen King!”
“You like Stephen King,” I said.
“And you used to like me,” he said.
“I still do,” I said.
“I find that hard to believe. Every time I touch you, you recoil.”
“It’s nothing personal . . .”
“Like an electric shock.”
“You’re totally exaggerating. I don’t move that fast.”
“I don’t see you recoiling from her,” said Steven.
“You’re overreacting,” I said.
“I feel like a leper,” he said, wrenching towels from the holder. He tossed them onto the floor of the bedroom and looked at me with a slumped sigh. “I just miss holding you.”
I sighed. Why the hell did I start this?
“And there you are letting my sister . . .”
I started to cry. “It was a friggin’ hug.”
Steven huffed.
I blew my nose.
“Get back on the horse,” shouted Mum as George told her to shut up.
“Does the whole world know about our nonexistent sex life?” said Steven. He pushed past me into the bedroom.
“My fanny’s a no-go area,” I blubbered. “I can’t help it.”
I blew my nose again.
“It’s shut down, like a power plant during a power cut—”
Steven turned to me. “What?”
“—but when the lights come on, you’ll be the first to know.”
Steven, lifting his jumper and with a flounce, headed for the door. “Well, I just may not be here,” he said.
Which I knew was a totally empty promise.
Mum and George heard everything, as did Helen and Neff, who left with a quiet “cheers” and a gentle door shutting.
I followed Steven into the garden, and as he began to pile up the logs with his jumper now slung around his shoulders like some sort of gay croquette player, I watched, not even offering to help.
I was too busy sniffing, and I could hear Mum and George in the kitchen.
“Poor guy, bet he hasn’t had it for ages,” muttered George. “I remember those baby days, never wanked so much since I was a teenager.”
“Honestly,” said Mum.
“What?” said George.
“Just because we share a bed doesn’t mean you have to talk like a porn whatever.”
“Well, it’s true. I had the wrist muscles of a shot-putter.”
“Now you’re talking bollocks,” said Mum.
Silence . . .
“I told her, didn’t I?” said Mum.
“Hmmm.”
“You never find another like him, I said.”
“So you did,” said George. “Big help.”
“Men find it hard to, you know, understand the whole baby thing,” said Mum. “Even someone like Steven.”
George stopped. “Steven?”
“Well, he’s almost gay, isn’t he? Very feminine.”
Gay? Steven? He’s anything but, I thought and was about to shout as much through the kitchen window and then Steven caught my eye. Perhaps he’d take it the wrong way.
Mum continued . . .
“I mean, there is touchy and well-over-the-top camp touchy”—Mum circled the kitchen—“but hating Stephen King? Who hates Stephen King?”
“He’s just found out about the library,” said George.
Mum stopped mid circling the kitchen.
“Library?”
“Yes. They are talking of closing it.”
“Closing it?” said Mum. “But isn’t Helen working on the roof next week?”
“Helen is working in the community centre next door, on the walls of gratitude.”
“That bloody thing.”
“Yes,” said George, “that bloody thing.”
“So she’s not fixing the library then?”
“No.”
“Bollocks,” said Mum. “What about my storytelling?”
I looked at Steven, piling logs in a temper. What about Steven?
Chapter Twenty
The Dishwasher
It is not always the mother who has the “mummy genes.”
Steven was quiet for the next few days, saying little but retreating into his study to work on his new book with a new character. Apparently, the old one had outlived its purpose.
When we first moved to our home, Steven’s writing routine was as it always was: him in the kitchen occasionally reading out, waiting for my input. I knew all his characters and could help with the plots and back stories. Not now. I had no idea what he was working on. He never read to me; apparently, I had as much interest in his characters as I did in sex.
To be honest, my attention span was as short at a TV ad and just as compelling. The only thing that held my attention was my bed, and the only thing I felt comfortable doing was feeding Baby Bea. Once the pain stopped, I found breastfeeding as natural as blinking. I didn’t have to do anything, just let her drink and zone out. I even had my favorite chair with a perfect view of the loch. Baby Bea tucking in was the best part of the day and hell mend anyone who interrupted, including Steven. It was my snooze-and-coffee time, my chocolate-and-staring-without-guilt time . . . and it usually soothed Baby Bea.
Except for last night . . .
Baby Bea woke several times and cried for what seemed like a decade, and this morning she was no better. She was whiny and hot and refused to be soothed. I jostled her about with a “come on, keep quiet” while uselessly piling dishes from one side of the sink to the other.
The place was a mess; I hadn’t cleared anything since the bonfire. Six months on and I still struggled with the whole housewife thing, it overwhelmed me. Most days I spent on my own staring at the tree stumps in between feeds. Mum, now telling stories and trying to sort out the mysteries of Helen, was preoccupied. I hardly saw her, and when I did, she was about as helpful as a dishwasher in a power cut.
And as for Steven, he seemed to have lost patience; he was still in a mood and spent the last two days taking it out on his jumper until I shoved it in the machine. At which point he took to walking past the mess, tutting about the empty dishwasher and how any idiot could fill it.
He even made a coffee without making me one.
I threw together a sandwich for Steven and, forgetting that Baby Bea had just dozed off, shouted unnecessarily loudly. She jolted in my arms and began to cry, yet again.
“It’s just a cold,” shouted Steven, but I was beginning to panic. I had no idea what to do; it was Steven who seemed to have the “mummy genes.”
I began shushing her as he walked in with an “I’m trying to write” look.
When he saw Baby Bea’s red face, he took her from me.
“Does she need a doctor?” I said.
He slid her over his shoulder with a couple of gentle taps.
“Is it that rash again?” I said.
He looked at me with a don’t be stupid look.
“I am only trying to help,” I said. “I just don’t know what to do.”
“Have you fed her?” he asked.
“Well, yes, but she’s not interested.”
He looked into her face. “Have you tried some water?”
“She had a bit . . .”
Baby Bea let out a loud belch followed by another . . . then snuggled into the nape of Steven’s neck
.
He wiped her nose. “There, there, Baby Bea.”
“She’s never cried like that before,” I said.
“Yes, she has,” he said. He looked at her again, touching her forehead. “Has she had any medicine?”
“Shit, I forgot about that.”
He pulled up a seat at the table, expertly slid a teaspoon of Calpol between her lips, and rocked her with another “there, there.”
She began to doze, and he carried her to her room. I followed, watching as he slid her into her cot. Neither of us said anything, and we stiffly retreated back to the kitchen without a word. Steven, with a sigh, opened the dishwasher and began to fill it.
“I’ll do that,” I said.
He looked at me. I was still in my pyjamas. “Maybe you should get dressed first.”
I didn’t move. He’d be gone by the time I came back, the study door shut and him avoiding me. I wanted to make up, for us to be friends again . . .
“Sorry to hear about the library,” I muttered.
He shrugged and pulled a pan from the pile of dishes and began to scrape imaginary burnt bits. “It should be closed in a month.”
“Not if Mum has her way, she’s started a petition.”
Steven stopped mid pan scraping. “A few signatures are hardly going to make a difference.”
“A few? She’s got mountains of names—so Helen says.”
Steven shoved the pan into the dishwasher and slammed it shut. The dishwasher chugged into action.
He looked about the kitchen. I could see him thinking, Where to start . . .
Let me try, I wanted to say. Can we do it together . . . start again . . . help me, I’m lost!!!
Instead, I made some stupid joke about finding clean clothes, which he greeted with a grunt.
I gave up and was just on the verge of heading to the bedroom when the dishwasher made a loud crashing noise.
I stopped. We both stared as water began to dribble from below, then oozed from the sides.
“Jesus,” said Steven, uselessly grabbing a tea towel.
I looked under the sink, posed to turn the water off, as water burst the dishwasher door open. I skidded as water hit my legs and flooded the floor.
“Fucking hell,” said Steven.
“Shut that door,” I said, gesturing to the door leading to the passage as water trickled towards it. I swiftly turned the water off.
“Jesus,” muttered Steven, staring at my drenched PJs.
Without thinking, I pulled out the dishwasher and began to investigate. Instantly at home with pipes and plumbing, I pushed and prodded as Steven, dragging the mop from the cupboard, stopped just shy of my behind.
As I grunted, manipulated, and prodded, he watched, handing me the odd tool that more often than not was wrong. Soon he was talking of the past . . . when we first met.
“Remember Oban?” he said.
I didn’t answer.
“No one could sort that toilet.”
I grunted, tussled free a connection, and threw a useless bit across the floor.
Steven picked it up and placed it in a bin bag.
“Except you.”
I ran my fingers across a connection. Where is the leak?
“Your hair was long.”
“Mum keeps on at me to cut it,” I said, tossing the other piece of the connection.
Steven lifted it into the bag. “It hung down your back like silk.”
I pulled a few tools from my box in the corner.
“You were like a mermaid.”
“Can you pass me that . . .” I pointed to a wrench.
“You sorted the unsortable,” he said, passing me a screwdriver.
I sat back and wiped my forehead. “We just need a few bits,” I said. “Helen could bring them over.”
Steven touched me on the shoulder. I turned to him.
He looked into my eyes with the sort of softness I hadn’t seen for a while.
“Why don’t you go back to work?” he said.
“What?”
“Why don’t you help with the roof? It might make you feel better. Helen likes working with you.”
“But Baby Bea . . . her feeds.”
“Leave her with me,” he said. “She’s eating bits and pieces.” He laughed. “They’ll love her in the library. And your mum would be ecstatic.”
I looked at him. It was not that long ago when Steven said that my Mum was so unbearable he wanted to move to another country.
“She could tell stories with Baby Bea,” said Steven, “while you climb about the scaffold. I can call you when she needs a feed.”
He touched my hand . . .
Come to think of it—it was me who mentioned moving to another country.
That night, as Steven talked of his new character, I listened and for the first time allowed him to wrap his arms around me, until Baby Bea woke. Steven brought her into bed and watched as I fed her.
“You were always my muse,” he said.
“Oh?”
“So hard to write without you listening.”
I stared at Baby Bea’s chubby cheeks and ran a finger across them.
“You don’t need me.” I blushed.
“You! You are every heroine. Without you, I would still be writing shopping lists.”
I kissed my daughter; her little blue eyes flicked open and she smiled. For the first time, I felt warm inside.
“Everyone has a dip,” I said. “Perhaps you could write about that?”
Chapter Twenty-One
The Library
Scaring children requires the absences of mobiles.
Steven was in the library the next day when Mum burst through the doors driving her wheelchair like a Roman chariot.
The library was empty apart from a robust-looking elderly gent browsing the free newspapers, a small woman hidden behind the mysteries shelf, and a young mother trying to control her toddler hell-bent on touching everything in sight.
“It’s not Monday,” said Steven without looking up.
Mum, ignoring Steven, circled the room like she was on parade, despite the lack of audience.
“This place will close over my dead body,” she shouted.
“That could be arranged,” laughed the elderly man.
“It’s under attack,” Mum said.
“Pfff,” muttered a small voice from behind a James Patterson.
“And it is up to us to stop it,” shouted Mum.
“Stop the council,” snorted the elderly man, “that’ll be right.”
A toddler ran past making driving noises. “Come back,” yelled his mother with a yank, swiftly wiping his wet mouth.
Mum stopped and, with a grim look, pulled a petition from her bag.
“I have proposed a sit-in,” she said, waving the petition like a flag.
There was a flush of a toilet as the toddler’s older brother burst out struggling with his zip.
The elderly man, pulling a face, made a nuclear waste joke as the young mother attempted to help one child while holding the other.
“Who’s going to join me?” said Mum.
“I’m just waiting for the bus,” said the small woman, peering from a Jack Reacher.
“Me too,” said the elderly newspaper man as the toddler wriggled free and kicked Mum’s tyre.
Baby Bea sneezed, pulled a face, then went back to snoozing as I placed her beside Steven. My first day back at work. I was excited.
Mum didn’t notice; she was busy trying to scare the two boys with a story. A story that went way over the toddler’s head, but not his brother’s . . .
“Pumpkins imprison little boys, just for a laugh, but they bite their finger off one by one first.”
The older brother made for another kick like he was going for a goal, and the petition, now hanging limply from Mum’s hand, was in the way. He missed and fell, grabbing the petition as he tumbled.
“That’s enough,” said the young mother, dragging the two off with a flushed face.
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Steven and I watched with an our daughter will never behave like that look as the mother pulled at the petition.
The boy was not for letting go; as she prised one finger, another clamped harder. Finally, petition ripped in half, she freed one section of it, followed by the other. Mum, with a snatch, muttered a curt “thank you.”
Steven motioned to Baby Bea sleeping by his side. “You’d better go,” he said.
I looked at Mum.
Steven’s eyes followed mine. “I can handle this,” he muttered.
Helen, unaware of the political rumpus in the library, was emptying the van in the car park. I could see her through the window. We were fixing the roof of the community centre, which was next door to the library. Her job was to mend, from the outside, a leak in the roof, while mine was to make the mending invisible inside.
The hole was made by the accidental tumbling of the wall of gratitude by McFlaherty the Brave after a few too many.
McFlaherty was an artist who taught life drawing and was known as the brave for three reasons: his ability to take off his clothes at a moment’s notice, his ability to argue with the community centre’s board to allow nude drawing, and his habit of grabbing anyone who stood still long enough to model for his classes, including members of the board.
The wall of gratitude stood in the middle of the community centre, a square foyer which led to all the other rooms: a wall designed to celebrate “the good, the bad, and the ugly” (as Neff put it) in the community.
It had, in its time, exhibited photos and posters of the great yoga teachings of “Ida from the North” and “Sally from Lochgilphead”; vegan cookery classes (also from Sally); salsa classes (from Imogen, Neff’s nemesis and probably the main reason for Neff’s “the good, the bad, and the ugly” comment); the best of the Women’s Rural Institute cake and clothes hanger decorations contests; the Scout, Guide, and Beaver Christmas parties; and more, including the odd small photo of Nefertiti and her belly dancing troupe (another reason for the “good, bad, and ugly” comment) . . . until plans for the renovation of the community hall were made.