by J. A. Baker
She bats all those thoughts away. Thoughts of Rob and a life without him in it. It’s stupid. Unfeasible. And then there’s Dane to think about. He needs her. He needs his family. A young lad going through a difficult patch. To uproot him is unthinkable. What sort of a mother would that make her? To drag her boy away from everything he knows – away from his father, his home, his friends. She couldn’t do it. The thought repulses her almost as much as Rob’s philandering. It’s all about balance, weighing up the good against the bad. She will sit this one out, wait for it to blow over, just like the others. This woman, this latest episode, will mean no more or no less to him than any of the others. In a few months, possibly even a few weeks, it will all be a thing of the past. Another notch on her husband’s bedpost is all it will amount to.
She swallows and lowers her eyes, blinking back tears. The floor needs cleaning. Others wouldn’t see it but to her, it is unmissable, the flecks of grime incongruous against the smart white flooring. In the corners of the tiles, set deep in the grooves of the grouting are fragments of dirt. If she can focus on removing them, on washing and scrubbing until everything gleams, it restores some of the control back into her life, allowing her to feel as if some things are within her grasp, not spiralling downwards taking her and everything she knows, with it.
She is reminded of the words her mother regularly recited that related to her years spent teaching in a challenging school. The key to dealing with behavioural issues and for sure the easiest way to end what is going on, is to pick off the peripherals, the children who tag along, sitting beside the central offender. Take care of the small stuff, she used to say, and the big problems will sort themselves out. That’s what she is doing here. Sometimes the bigger issues are too much of a headache to tackle. She will busy herself with the smaller stuff, ignoring what is right in front of her nose until it disappears and everything goes back to how it was.
Until next time, that is. She’s no fool. And she knows her husband. She knows him better than she knows herself, having studied him and his undesirable behaviour for so many years, trying to please him, to anticipate his moves, always preparing herself for his next misdemeanour. She is practically an expert. So why does she dread it so, these episodes? Why does it always leave her feeling hollowed out and utterly miserable? She should be inured to it by now, hardened to his ways and able to shake it all off with a shrug. Except she can’t. Each time it happens it flattens her that little bit further, squashing her emotions deep inside her abdomen until she is hardly able to breathe. Each new woman he beds pushes her mood lower and lower until she is almost at ground level and feels as if she is being buried alive.
And yet here she is, letting it happen again. History repeating itself because the other options are too unpleasant to consider – living alone, fighting Rob in the courts for her share of the house. Dane deciding he no longer wants to live with his mother and that he would rather spend his days with his dad. His loud insensitive brash father. The idea of it makes her feel faint.
Nina thinks back to last night, to the smell of Rob’s aftershave as he splashed it around his face, to the lustful glint in his eye as he gave her a quick dismissive peck on the cheek, telling her he was going out for a few beers with the boys. ‘Somewhere different tonight,’ he had said. ‘Billy said we should try The Kings Head for a change.’
She listened to him laying out the groundwork, covering his tracks, him unaware she had already seen the thinly disguised message on his phone as he showered, a short missive from somebody named Buzzy.
She knew the signs, recognised his modus operandi. He had done it before, given them random pseudonyms, his flings, then after getting caught, after much questioning, capitulated, begged for forgiveness, told her he would never do it again, the worry of having to hand over half of his house so apparent it was laughable. Until the next time.
Until now.
I’ll be there at 8. Xx
An innocuous message. Short and to the point. With kisses at the end.
She had waved goodbye to him as he left, trying to keep her manner distant, trying to appear disinterested as he headed off for a night of passion, then spent the evening curled up on her bed, whiling away the hours with a book she couldn’t read and a programme on the television that didn’t hold her interest.
By the time Rob staggered home, still reeking of aftershave, his own scent combined with an undertone of something softer, something sweeter and more fragrant that lingered in the air for longer than she would have liked, it was after midnight and her skin was on fire, her rage barely hidden beneath the surface of her burning flesh. Sleeping was impossible. She was still laid there rigid many hours later, staring at the ceiling while he slept beside her, his breathing deep and regular interspersed with the occasional snore, his lustful needs sated, his ego massaged and smoothed out.
She should be used to it by now, these dark but brief affairs. That’s what she tells herself, but each time it happens it becomes that little bit more insulting, cuts that little bit deeper, stripping away another layer of her dignity until one day there will be nothing left of her but muscle, sinew and bone.
Her hands are red and sore as she scrubs at the tiles, digging her nails into the cracks, picking at flecks of dirt that refuse to budge, adding hot water to the bucket and cursing as it sloshes over the sides, wetting her clothes.
The therapeutic easing of stress that she hoped for doesn’t occur and she is left instead with an aching back and burning hands, her fingers pink and tender, her nails broken and ragged. A greater sense of relief rips through her as she throws the scrubbing brush across the floor. It bounces and lands with a thud on the other side of the kitchen, water and soap suds spreading out over the floor.
She sits for a while, seconds ticking by, those seconds turning into minutes until the click of the door drags her out of her near trance-like state, shaking her back into the moment.
In her head is a scenario, a vision of her son shouting through to her that he is home, his voice light, his mood even lighter. He will walk towards her with a grin, perhaps even give her a hug. She will ask him if he is hungry and he will nod, enthusiasm oozing out of him. He will sit, waiting for his snack and they will chat about his day as she makes him a sandwich, him recalling the odd humorous event, telling her with a half-smile about how much he hates school while deep down she knows this is not true, something he says because it fits the stereotype of difficult sullen teenagers. He will tell her about his PE lesson where he scored the winning goal and how wonderful it is to have so many friends and then she will smile as she butters the bread, a warm glow settling in her chest, spreading through her body as she listens to his soft velvety voice.
Then the true picture of her son punches its way into her brain and her throat constricts as she braces herself, listening to his heavy footfall on the wooden flooring, the way he stomps through to the kitchen like a morose sulky toddler where she sits in a state of nervous readiness, her skin prickling, her muscles flexed and ready, every sinew, every tendon stretched and taut.
‘Fuck’s sake! The fucking floor is soaking wet.’ Dane kicks at the bucket of water, sending it sailing across the floor. It rocks from side to side before coming to a standstill. Nina waits for it to tip over and for the water to spill over the recently cleaned tiles. It remains upright. She silently heaves a sigh of relief, lowering her shoulders. Exhaustion swamps her. She is too tired, too immersed in misery to clean up any more mess.
‘Would you like a snack before I make our evening meal?’ She tries to keep the tremble out of her voice, attempting to muster up a smile and appear relaxed and at ease when she is anything but.
‘I’ll do it myself. I’m going out later. Don’t want a meal.’
He turns away and rummages in the fridge, pulling out items, throwing packets and cartons to one side. She is at a loss as to what to say or do next. This should be easy, this type of conversation. It should happen naturally without any forethought or plann
ing, without worry of retribution for fear of saying or doing the wrong thing. Why is it so damn hard? This is her baby, her boy. It should be as easy as breathing, being around him, having a conversation. It should be a reflex action, not this stilted awkward procedure where she has to overthink and analyse every damn thing that comes out of her mouth. Perhaps it’s her. Maybe it is all her doing, this inability to connect and make small talk. She is tense. He is still a child. She is the adult here and needs to say and do the right thing. Always. It’s her job as a mother to guide him, to show him what is expected of him in these situations. And if she isn’t willing to do it, then who will?
‘I’ll pour you some juice.’ She is on her feet, her tone playful and easy. ‘How is Alex getting on? Must be tricky for him being the new lad at school. I was saying to Sally that you’ve helped him along, made him feel really welcome.’
The rummaging stops. She picks up on his abrupt cessation but chooses to ignore it, grabbing a tumbler and filling it with ice from the fridge door. Their bodies are close now, almost touching. The body that she used to snuggle to her chest, the same child that she fed from her breast, his small fists curled into tight balls, his small bright eyes gazing into hers as he suckled contentedly.
‘You told her what? Fuck’s sake, he’s just another kid at school. I’m not his fucking minder!’
Electricity bolts through her, sharp and painful, making her woolly-headed and woozy. Tears mist her vision. She blinks them away, determined to get through this, not to be browbeaten by her own child. ‘Well, I’m glad you’re doing the right thing. I’ve heard that some of the other kids have singled him out because of the school he used to go to.’ She turns and moves away before he can reply, her spine rigid, her movements stiff and laboured.
‘Where’s all the cheese gone?’ Dane holds up a small block of orange Cheddar wrapped into a clear roll of plastic and surveys it, his brow wrinkled into a deep frown, the expression in his eyes hidden by a row of dark lashes. ‘Why haven’t you bought any more cheese?’
‘It’s behind the eggs.’ A sing-song voice. Again. Her heart is hammering now. She can feel his simmering anger and has no idea why he is always this furious, always on the cusp of telling her how much he hates her. How useless she is. What a terrible mother she is.
‘Behind the eggs.’ His voice is a whine as he attempts to imitate her. ‘Well maybe next time, try moving it to the front so we can find it. It’s not as if you’ve got anything else to do all day, is it?’
Their eyes meet for a brief second but that is all it takes for her to see the darkness there. The smouldering anger. And she wishes she hadn’t. That look, the look of a stranger, turns her cold whilst simultaneously coating her neck and top lip in tiny iridescent pearls of perspiration.
As much as she tries to slink away, to get out of his line of sight, every movement, every single step she takes feels heavy and cumbersome, as if she is made of concrete. As if she has no right to be here at all, here alongside her child in her own home.
The chair is cool under her legs. She perches on it, doing her best to stay in the background away from his words, away from his obvious anger and fury.
A memory comes back to her unbidden – the three of them on a family day out. Rob being his usual noisy gregarious self, chatting to locals as they made their way to the fishing farm, and she and Dane linking arms, her other hand carrying the small picnic basket they had prepared.
They entered, paid the required fee and collected their equipment then sat themselves by the lake while Rob prepared everything. The sun was hot on their backs and everything felt perfect.
‘Come on, son. I’ll show you how it’s done.’ Nina had listened and watched as Rob demonstrated to a young Dane how to throw food into the lake and then hold out the small net, placing it in the water to catch a trout. It only took a couple of seconds for the net to suddenly spring to life with a squirming fish, the handle swaying from side to side as their catch tried to escape. She remembers Dane’s face, how his eyes had sparkled with delight, the giggle that came spilling out of his throat as he and Rob lifted it out of the water and tipped the contents onto the grass.
A silvery trout flapped about on the ground, its eyes grey and wide, its mouth opening and closing as it gasped for breath, its small rubbery lips leaving a lasting impression in Nina’s memory. She had wanted Rob to throw it back, not keep it. It was the fun of catching it she had argued later. It was always about the catching, not what came next. Not the ending of a life. Never that.
Dane’s voice had cracked through the stillness, his small reedy tones filling the air around them. ‘Kill it, Dad! Kill it!’
Nina had watched in horror as Rob handed the small wooden mallet over to Dane who gleefully brought it down on the fish’s head over and over and over until the squirming and flapping ceased and the poor creature lay motionless, those wide grey eyes staring up at her, filling her with deep shame and remorse.
‘I’ve killed it!’ Dane cried, holding the mallet up and swinging it around. ‘I’ve killed it. Let’s kill another one, Dad. Let’s do it again.’
A shaft of repugnance shot through her, growing and multiplying until she could stand it no more and she jumped up, snatching the mallet out of her son’s small hands. ‘I think one is enough. Let’s get you cleaned up and have some lunch.’
Leaving Rob to gather up the dead fish and the equipment, Nina grabbed Dane’s hand and whisked him away, their bag of food firmly tucked under her other arm.
She pushes away other thoughts that crowd her head – the jar of mini-beasts they had collected together that Dane emptied and stood on, trampling them with his feet, clapping his hands and laughing as a spider tried to hide only for him to chase it and stamp on it repeatedly. The shrieks of delight as he watched a lion stalk and catch its prey on a nature documentary, his eyes fixated on it, and then the subsequent tantrum when she turned the TV over to another channel. She cannot think about any of it any longer. It’s all too much. It causes her stomach to clench, her innards to roil with fear and disgust.
It’s a phase. That’s what she has told herself over the years, a chant she plays out in her head over and over to protect her sanity. A phase that has lasted almost fifteen years.
Swallowing and rubbing at her eyes, Nina stands up, a headache building behind her eyes, the sort of headache that lasts all day, refusing to be erased by even the strongest of painkillers. She goes into the living room, not glancing back, too drained, too anxious and too bloody unnerved by her own child’s presence and unpredictable behaviour to risk looking his way.
7
‘Alex, my boy. Come in. Come in. Dane said you were calling round for some supplies before you head off.’ Dane’s dad winks and nudges him as Alex steps into the expansive hallway and takes off his shoes.
‘Leave ’em on. The missus won’t mind. She loves a bit of cleaning anyway. Nothing else to keep her occupied.’ Rob glances upstairs and cups his hands around his mouth as he hollers through the hallway, his voice echoing and bouncing off the cream tiles and bare walls. ‘Dane! Come on, get a move on, lad. You’re going to be late. I need to sort you out before you head off.’ He turns and gives Alex another conspiratorial wink, his grin a mile wide.
‘Yeah, all right. On my way down now.’ The contrast between Rob’s bright raucous voice and Dane’s dour croaky timbre is stark. Alex wonders how they are even related, these two people – Dane with a dark crop of hair and even darker eyes and then his dad with his bald head and bright chirpy demeanour.
Alex’s eyes roam around the house. He twists his body to one side so he can peer into the living room, at the tapestry that stretches across the entire wall, the sprawling white leather couch and the huge curved TV screen that looks bigger than his bedroom at their new house. This place reeks of money and yet Dane is the one who claims that Alex is posh. Sometimes he just can’t work people out. His dad claims that when he was younger, societal structures were more clearly defined betwe
en the haves and the have-nots but nowadays things are more complicated, the structure more closely interwoven and almost impossible to tease and pick apart.
Not that it bothers him. Alex couldn’t care less where Dane lives – a castle or a garden shed – it’s all the same to him. He’s just glad to have a friend in the overcrowded building that is his new school. Their other school was much smaller; everybody knew one another and some of the teachers were known to the pupils by their first names. It had a relaxed feel about it, an ethos of calm and equality which is a far cry from the picture most people have in their heads of an elite establishment that excludes outsiders and looks down on those who are less well off than those who are privileged enough to attend.
‘Right, lads. Come with me.’ Dane’s dad claps a hand across their shoulders. His son’s head is dipped as he stumbles down the last few stairs and stands next to Alex. ‘I’ll show you where I keep my stash.’
The garage is almost as big as the house itself. Alex is led into it via a door from the utility room. His eyes sweep over the white concrete floor that has been cleaned and brushed to within an inch of its life and land upon the two low-slung sports cars that are parked over in the corner of the room.
‘My two toy cars,’ Rob says casually as he opens the door of a beer fridge and wrestles with an armful of bottles. ‘I take them out at the weekends. Not Nina’s style, though. She prefers her everyday car, the Suzuki that’s parked out there on the drive, but we love ’em, don’t we, Dane?’ He gives his son a slap between the shoulder blades after placing the bottles of lager down on the floor at their feet, and lets out another raucous round of laughter. ‘Will that lot do you, or do want a few extra? Plenty more where they came from.’
Alex wonders what Dane’s mum thinks of all this and then turns his thoughts to his own parents and how they will react to him rolling in later, drunk and clumsy; him trying to hide it from them, especially his dad, then creeping upstairs, the walls and floor swaying as he blindly staggers into bed with a crash. Upsetting his mum doesn’t trouble him so much these days but the thought of disappointing his dad makes his head fuzzy. The old man deserves better. He’s had a rough couple of months and with his mum’s moods and perpetual need to pick fights, he is reluctant to make things worse. Somebody needs to be on his dad’s side.
