Time Out

by Emma Murray

  But before I can dig any deeper, Kitty is asking about Harry and if Bea has found a ‘new fella’, and it suddenly dawns on me that Kitty feels sorry for Bea because she’s a single mum. She’s probably been gossiping to Bea’s mum about her.

  I suddenly feel defensive on behalf of my friend so I take great pains to tell Kitty that Bea is doing brilliantly – in a ‘thank you very much’ kind of way; that she has a great social life and a fantastic job; and that Harry is a gorgeous child. And all the time I am defensively gushing about my best friend, she stands there and listens, head cocked with a half-smile on her face.

  When I’m finished, she just mutters, ‘Ah, glad to hear she’s doing so well.’

  We stand there for a moment.

  ‘Where are you living yourself?’ she asks.

  ‘London,’ I say.

  ‘Your accent has a touch of the West Brit,’ she says suddenly. ‘Where are you from?’

  I feel like I’ve been punched in the stomach. Granted I’m married to a British man and my daughter is half-British and I’ve been living in the UK for twenty years, but where other more pretentious Irish people have failed, I have ALWAYS hung on to my Irish accent. To be called a ‘West Brit’ – or someone who secretly yearns to be British – is absolutely out of order.

  ‘I’m from DUBLIN,’ I semi-screech at her.

  She regards me for a moment and then mutters something that suspiciously sounds like, ‘Same thing.’

  I’m beginning to go off Kitty. Just as I open my mouth to bid Kitty goodbye, she says, ‘Are you a swimmer?’

  Weary now, I shake my head.

  ‘Can you swim, I mean?’ she says impatiently.

  I tell her that I can swim but avoid it where possible.

  ‘Grand,’ she says. ‘Every morning around eleven o’clock, a group of us gather on the beach just at the bottom of the cliff steps over there.’

  She grabs my arm and practically marches me over to the very back right-hand corner of the garden and sure enough, there is a row of large steps that have been carved out of the cliff.

  ‘You should join us for a swim in the sea one day,’ she says.

  I laugh and shake my head, thinking of nothing worse than throwing myself into the icy waters of the frothing Irish Sea.

  As if reading my thoughts, Kitty says, ‘It’s nice and calm when the tide comes in. It’ll put a bit of colour back in your cheeks.’

  I politely thank her for the invitation but just as I’m about to demur for the second time, she clasps my hand and says softly, ‘It’s good for the soul, Saoirse,’ and gives me a look of such sympathy that I have to turn away. ‘Whatever worries are clouding your mind, the sea will clear them.’

  ‘I’ll think about it!’ I say brightly, blinking away unexpected tears.

  ‘Do!’ she says, dropping my hand for the final time, and with a brusque wave, I watch as she walks quickly out of the garden and onto the gravel road.

  When I get back into the house, I go straight to the kitchen, pick the yellow kitchen stool, and pour myself a very large glass of wine. I think about Kitty and wonder how she knew about all my worries, and then I drink another glass and stop thinking about Kitty altogether. Full of boozy Dutch courage I calmly text David to tell him I have arrived safely and to ask him to give Anna a big hug from me. I thought that saying goodbye to Anna would be heartbreaking, but she managed to make the whole distressing experience far less traumatic by kicking me up the arse for absolutely no reason. Apparently I chose the wrong moment to bend over and pick up my suitcase.

  Two minutes later, I receive a chatty text telling me that Anna has had a blast with Maria the nanny and her ‘partner in crime’, Harry. Apparently, Anna hasn’t mentioned me at all, which is a relief. I don’t want her to miss me as much as I miss her. David signs off with his customary five kisses (it has be five – no other number will do) and, teary-eyed, I shut down my phone. No point in replying when he’s probably sending the same kisses to someone else as well.

  11

  The next day is Saturday. I wake up at 7 a.m. with a heavy heart and a touch of a hangover. There is no reason for me to be awake at 7 a.m. – I have nothing to get up for. No Anna demanding Cheerios and then changing her mind twenty seconds later; no David (that cheating bastard) grumbling about the disorder of the fridge or the countless other domestic concerns that I couldn’t give a shit about. This is freedom, but not the way I wanted it.

  Desperately in need of distraction, I grab my phone to check Vale Mums, hating myself for my weakness.

  Scrolling down, I see that chief Organic, Tania Henderson, has been on again, this time complaining about the ‘screaming foxes’ outside her house late the previous night. Apparently, the foxes woke up her little boy, Heath, who goes to bed at seven o’clock every night. Lots of sympathisers to this post, plus the odd crying emoji. So far so tame. Then Caroline – Tania’s biggest fan – has to ruin it all by posting,

  Tania – how DO you get Heath to bed at 7 p.m.??? My Sebastian refuses to go to bed until 8.30 p.m.!

  Cue the inevitable patronising-yet-obvious tips (‘Have you tried reading him a bedtime story?’, ‘What about some soothing music?’ and ‘A warm glass of milk before bedtime does wonders!’) from Tania and the other smug mums just desperate to share their code-cracking strategies with ‘poor Caroline’.

  Feeling grateful to be irritated rather than depressed, I fling my phone down on the soft quilt and decide to get of bed. It may be a Saturday, but I have work to do. So I heave myself up and walk heavily to the bathroom. I wash my hair without removing all the stray hairs from the plughole, and deliberately leave the wet towels on the floor. Then I brush my teeth with my electric toothbrush and let the toothpaste drizzle onto the holder to make a nice gummy stain. Finally, I get dressed, leave the bedroom without making the bed, and pad across the cool marble tiles without wearing any slippers, before going to the kitchen to make myself some breakfast. Gratified to find a well-stocked fridge and cupboard, I decide on impulse to make myself a fry-up – one of David’s most hated dishes (he can’t bear the splashes of the oil on the hob) – and eat it all up contentedly at the kitchen island, facing the window that looks out over the back garden and the cliffs only a short distance away.

  It is a glorious morning: bright, sunny and calm, with clear blue skies populated with low-hanging white clouds. After breakfast, I deliberately leave the dishes in the sink, mix up the cutlery drawers just for fun, and then throw open the sliding glass door to the back garden, and step outside into the cool sea breeze. Finally, a lovely sense of calmness rushes over me and I feel inspired. Before it slips away, I go back indoors to the bedroom momentarily and come back with my laptop, intending to get started on the pitch, only to find Kitty standing in my kitchen, dressed in just a swimsuit and flip-flops, her hand clutching a beach towel.

  I give a little squeal of fright and my laptop almost falls from my grip.

  ‘So, are you coming then?’ she says, with the confidence of someone who has made a firm prior engagement.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I ask, stunned that this woman is now standing half-dressed in my kitchen as if it’s the most normal thing in the world.

  ‘Swimming!’ she says impatiently.

  ‘Kitty, I never said I was going to go swimming today,’ I reply, trying to keep calm.

  ‘But sure, it’s a beautiful day!’ she says, genuinely surprised. ‘Why would you miss it?’

  ‘Kitty,’ I say her name again with the vague hope that she will actually listen to what I’m saying. ‘I am not going swimming. I have to work.’ I hold up my laptop and sort of shake it at her in the hope that she will finally get the message and feck off.

  She stares at the laptop and then back to me. ‘Well, OK then,’ she sighs disappointedly, as if I have just pulled out of a very important commitment. She makes her way towards the door and steps back out into the garden.

  My heart sings in relief.

  She turns and I give
her a cheery wave goodbye and I watch her stout figure walk steadily towards the stone steps she showed me the previous evening. Just as reaches the steps, she turns and calls out, ‘I’ll try you again tomorrow so.’

  My stomach plummets.

  Trying to shake off the worrying feeling of being stalked, I set up my laptop on the kitchen island, and start to type. I type about the guilt, and the shame and the isolation I felt after Anna came along, how my world shrank to the size of an acorn, and how everyone else seemed to know what they were doing but me. I write about my bitter, resentful feelings towards David and how unsupported I felt. When I have finished writing I feel exhausted, and slightly worried. I have poured my whole soul onto a couple of pages and it’s tough to think that they might turn into a book, which will, one day, be out in the world for anyone to see. But I can’t think like that now – I have to take it one step at a time.

  Although I’m tired, I am reluctant to walk away from that lovely ‘in the zone’ feeling, and so I start to think about what else I should write about. I mean, we had the baby; she wasn’t the best-looking; I found out that my nose was too big for my face; nearly ended up in the nuthouse with the fear, shame, and guilt… Now what? So much has happened but I’m not sure what to focus on next. Let’s see… how about unfaithful husbands? Or slut bosses called Jordan? Or the fact that my whole world is falling apart?

  I put my hands on my head and take some deep breaths, forcing the anxiety down. I need to focus. Feeling more grounded, I tap my fingers impatiently on the keyboard.

  Time for a glass of water. I drain it and return to the laptop.

  Nothing productive happens.

  Shit.

  My stomach starts to rumble for no reason, given that I have just stuffed sausages, bacon and a fried egg into it, but it reminds me that I really should go to the shops to stock up on some ‘necessities’.

  Telling myself that a trip to the shops isn’t skiving, I grab my bag and keys and then come to a sudden pause by the door. I automatically turn round to call Anna, and feel a pang of anxiety when I remember she’s not with me. The thought of it makes me feel physically sick. I reach for my phone and text David to ask him to send a photo of her, of how she looks right now. I need to see her. Even more worrying is the fact that today will be the first time in her four years that she will be spending the entire day with her father – and she hates him these days. What if she doesn’t let David help her get dressed or hold her hand when they’re crossing the road? Or what if she refuses to eat anything he makes for her? Jesus, she could go on hunger strike. I know I’m being ridiculous and irrational; David is her father, for goodness’ sake. He may be a cheating, lying scumbag, but he adores Anna.

  After I’ve sent the message, I grab my coat, fling open the door and on impulse decide to leave the car and carry on down the gravel road on foot to the nearby village I drove through the previous day.

  When I reach the bottom of the slope, I turn left towards the village and take the route under a disused railway-bridge tunnel. It feels dark and cool in the tunnel and I am pleased to find the air pleasantly smelling of grass and flowers, rather than shit and piss, which would have most likely been the case in London.

  PING! I check my phone and I am relieved to see a picture of my only child fully dressed in her vampire Halloween costume, giving me the thumbs up. David has captioned the photo, ‘Off to the cinema!’ Tears of relief blind my eyes: not only is Anna alive, but she looks positively delighted.

  As I go to put my phone away, I almost crash into a woman hurtling along, steering a pram with one hand and a screaming toddler in the other. I jump out of her way as quickly as I can, but one of the pram wheels runs over my right foot none the less. I give a small squeal of pain, and she comes to an abrupt halt.

  She takes one look at my foot and contorted face, and says, ‘WILL YOU GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY WAY?’

  I am outraged. How dare she? She’s the one who just ran over my foot with her fucking buggy. Yet all attempts to articulate my rage are drowned by the ear-piercing death-inducing cries of her red-faced toddler, and her attempts to soothe him.

  I soften.

  There she is, trying to take care of what looks to be like a two-year-old and a tiny baby. I remember how hard it is dealing with just Anna; I can’t imagine the horror of managing two children who look so close in age.

  I want to say something comforting to this harassed mother, who has now plonked the toddler on the ground and is using both hands to search frantically in her changing bag, presumably for something to placate him, but I’m not sure what. The pram starts to slowly roll away and I immediately jump into action and grab the handle before it can go any further.

  I wheel it back to where the mum is still crouching on the ground. A blissful silence has fallen now that she has managed to find a lollipop to keep her son happy. She stands up, and looks at me with those sleep-deprived black-bag-ridden eyes I remember so well myself.

  ‘Thanks for getting the pram,’ she mutters in a low voice.

  Just as I am about to respond with a token ‘No problem’, we are joined by another visitor to the tunnel.

  This time it’s an elderly lady, probably in her late seventies, dragging one of those zipped paisley shopping bags on wheels.

  ‘Well, hello, ladies!’ she says brightly. ‘And who do we have here?’

  She drops the handle of her shopping bag and sticks her face right into the pram.

  ‘Would you look at that! A beautiful baby!’ she says, in a tone of such surprise that I immediately wonder what else she might have expected to see in a full-size pram.

  She pulls her head out of the pram, looks directly at the mum and says, ‘Boy, is it?’

  The woman sighs.

  ‘No, it’s a girl, actually,’ she replies. ‘She’s wearing all pink,’ she adds, clearly irritated.

  The old woman nods her head absent-mindedly and then turns her attention to the toddler, who is sitting on the ground contentedly sucking his lollipop.

  She frowns at him for a bit, turns to his mum, takes a deep breath and says with a little titter, ‘You must be a very relaxed mother. My mother never would have given me a lollipop so early in the morning, and I have to say, none of my kids had sweets in the morning either.’

  She leans into the exhausted mother as if she is imparting some vital information and whispers, ‘Not good for the teeth!’

  Then she gestures to the baby and with sudden watery eyes tells her to ‘enjoy every minute’; that ‘time goes by so fast’; that ‘they’ll have flown the nest in no time’; and that ‘these are the best years of your life’.

  All the while this old biddy is talking, the mother seems to shrink into herself. I watch how her shoulders slump in defeat and see the look of tight-lipped shame, and I can tell exactly what she is thinking because I used to feel the same way. Guilt – terrible crushing guilt – that you’re doing everything wrong.

  I take a deep breath and fold my arms.

  It’s time to put an end to all this.

  I take a step towards the old woman, fix her with a hard look and tell her, ‘No,’ in the sternest voice I can muster.

  She looks at me in surprise as if she has just noticed me standing there.

  ‘I don’t understand, dear,’ she says, wrinkling her wrinkles.

  ‘I mean that these aren’t the best days of a mother’s life; time does not whizz by; in fact it goes more slowly because you are up all day and half the night.’

  The old lady gives me such a poisonous look that I’d swear she has been a nun in a former life. But I’m not finished yet.

  ‘And on another point, don’t you EVER judge a sleep-deprived mother for giving her tantruming toddler a lollipop. The problem with your generation is that you FORGET how hard it is to be a mum. Next time, be more bloody considerate instead of waving around your useless platitudes and judgements.’

  Now I’m finished.

  The elderly lady points at me for a b
it, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like a hex, and then grabs the handle of her bag and stalks off, still grumbling.

  I look at the mum and she flashes me a weak smile.

  ‘The old ones are the worst,’ I say. ‘Having said that, she was right about one thing.’

  ‘What’s that?’ the mum says.

  ‘You do have a beautiful baby,’ I say, peering into the pram at the sparkly blue-eyed little doll staring back at me.

  ‘Beautiful baby girl,’ I clarify.

  The mum laughs suddenly.

  ‘Her name is Niamh and I suppose she is lovely,’ she admits with all the well-earned pride of a new mum. ‘There is a problem, though.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Her brother fucking hates her,’ she says, resignedly.

  ‘Ah sure, that’s normal,’ I reply.

  ‘I suppose. But Conor is such a little prick these days,’ she says, looking at her toddler a bit tearfully.

  And I take one look at her exhausted face, wild hair, and milk-stained top and I see my own reflection from a few years back. I think about what Bea did for me that day on the bus and suddenly I want to do the same for her.

  ‘What are you doing now?’ I say.

  ‘I’m on my way home to tackle a mountain of shitting laundry,’ she says ruefully.

  ‘Fancy a beer?’ I say.

  She laughs as if I’m joking and then stops abruptly when she realises I’m deadly serious.

  Her eyes look hopeful and then resigned. ‘Come on,’ I cajole. ‘Your little boy will be grand running around the pub. We’ll get him some chips if he’s hungry, and your baby looks like a contented little thing.’

  She looks at me for a moment, nods decisively to herself, sticks out her hand, and says, ‘You’re on.’

  And so we make our way out of the tunnel into the bright sunshine, me wheeling the pram and her carrying her toddler, all thoughts of shopping, work and laundry completely forgotten.