by S. E. Lynes
“No. Thanks.”
“Shall I leave you to sleep?”
He nodded.
I pushed his damp hair back from his forehead and kissed him there, my lips registering that he wasn’t in fact running a temperature. “You sleep now,” I said. “I’ll come and check on you in a bit.”
I went downstairs. In the kitchen, there was no sign of Valentina but I could hear the television blaring from the living room.
“Well, now you’ve met Mikey,” I said as I went through. “Wasn’t exactly how I’d imagined it but ...”
But there was only Isla, wide-eyed in front of seven cartoon dwarves on the screen. I went back through to the kitchen, round into the utility space. The secret back door clattered against the outer wall and came swinging back shut with a bang. I heard a car starting up out front.
“Valentina?”
I ran up the path at the side of the cottage, reached the front garden in time to see her pull away, the silhouette of her wavy hair dark against the fading afternoon light.
TWELVE
By around half past five, I had given Isla her tea and was sitting on the living room floor with her. I was building a tower with those huge Lego bricks that decorate your entire home when you have wee ones when I heard the soft pad of Mikey’s footsteps on the stairs. A second or two later, he filled the doorway.
“Hey babe, sorry about that.” His hair was sticking up at the back, his eyes puffy. He’d thrown on an old sweatshirt and some jogging bottoms. His feet were bare, bony and white.
“Are you OK?”
“Yeah. Funny turn, that’s all. Stress, most probably.” He lifted both arms up and leant against the doorjamb, his sweatshirt rode up to show the black line of hair that trailed down his abdomen and disappeared into his waistband. I had a flashing urge to put my mouth to that place.
“You need to get to a doctor,” I said. “Tomorrow.”
He huffed and puffed, walked silently over the carpet and came to sit in the armchair. One look at his daughter and his face softened into a smile. I have to tell you, Mikey’s smile could melt an ice cap.
“I’m fine, Shone,” he said. “Don’t fuss.”
“Ach, don’t do that,” I said. “Don’t pass out then say there’s nothing wrong. That’s macho bullshit. You’re a father now, don’t forget. It’s not just about you any more.”
He waved his hand in front of his face.
“Don’t give me that ‘shut up little woman’ gesture either,” I said, angering. “I’m serious.”
“Shona, don’t. Leave me be.”
“Leave me be? What the hell’s that about? I’m not going to mop your brow, carry you up the stairs and feed you chicken soup for you to get up and waltz out of here saying, oh, it’s OK, I’m fine now. I’m not your nurse. I’m not your bloody mother.”
He shot out of his chair. “Stop nagging. For Christ’s sake.”
I jumped up too, stood close, looked up into his face. “Don’t you raise your voice to me – you’re too tall and you’re too big. And besides, you’re not doing that thing that men do.”
“Oh, and what’s that?”
“Act totally unreasonably then turn around and blame the woman for nagging. What’s nagging anyway, in the Gospel according to St. Michael? Anything that involves telling you to do something you don’t want to? We all have to do things we don’t want to, Mikey, that’s life. Fucking hell, is this how it’s going to be? I make one small demand and you throw your toys out of the pram? You drag me up here, stick me in this cottage, get on with your life as if nothing ever happened and meanwhile my life, my life, Mikey, is upside down, back to front and inside out. I don’t know who I am, what I’m doing, what day of the week it is. I’m doing all this for you and a lot of it doesn’t suit me, frankly, but I’m doing it – for you, for us. So don’t you baulk at taking one trip to the doctor, all right?”
“OK.” He raised both his palms and stepped back. “All right.”
We stared at each other. He blew at his fringe and gave me a sheepish grin. “You might be pocket-sized but you can be very scary when you want to be, d’you know that?”
I shrugged, anger evaporating like boiling soup. “You knew that from the start. Bit late to start complaining about it now.”
“You don’t have to fly quite so far off the handle though.”
“Better out than in where I come from. And call me old-fashioned but I can’t stand it when people aren’t fair with each other. And my husband’s no exception.”
“Husband, eh?” He grinned, stepped forward, slipped his hands round my waist and kissed my neck. “Husbands have rights.”
More kisses. The stubble on his chin scratched my neck.
“You’re not my husband, not in law,” I said, smiling.
He pulled open my shirt, kissed my collarbone. “We don’t need no certificate.” Kiss. “From the council.” Kiss. “To keep us together.” Kiss. “Do we?”
“All right, all right, old man.” I was laughing. “But that’s not how the song goes and, besides, the floor has eyes.”
We turned together to look at Isla, whose construction technique consisted of staring at the bricks as if to attempt the world’s first telekinetic building project.
Mikey took the back of my head in his hands, pushed my face to his and kissed me so hard my insides surged. I pictured his stomach, that trailing line of dark hair.
“You,” he said, “are a firecracker, d’you know that?” He took my hand, placed it at his hard crotch.
“I am the Firebird.” I kissed him again. When we broke off I lifted Isla into her playpen, cooing at her, talking to her all the while. I set her up with her electronic plastic train that played music and, seeing she was content enough, I took Mikey’s hand and led him away.
Around nine o’clock that same night, I called Valentina. I guess I wanted to check she was all right. No. That’s not true, I’m not being honest. I was phoning her because I thought she’d behaved strangely – driving off like that without saying goodbye. I couldn’t think of one reason why she would do that.
I went through my contacts on my iPhone and punched her number into the home phone, which I had never, would never, get around to programming. One ring and it went straight to voicemail.
“This is Georgie,” came the drawl of a well-to-do English voice. “Leave a message and I’ll get back to you pronto.”
I rang off, laughing to myself. I’d got so clumsy since Isla was born. And who the hell said pronto? I punched the number in again, more carefully this time. Valentina answered.
“You’ll never guess what I’ve just done,” I said. “I called the wrong number.”
“Did you get a toffee-nosed English bitch by any chance?”
“Yes! How did you guess?”
“For fuck’s sake. I’m changing my goddamn number. This happens at least three times a week.” A clicking sound came down the line, followed by a pantomime suck, like the sound you’d make if you were imitating a fish. Then came the intake of breath, the heavy exhalation. No mistaking this time. She was definitely smoking. “I’m sick to death of it,” she said, her voice reedy, croaky.
Some yoga teacher – I couldn’t help but laugh.
“Don’t,” she said. “It’s a frickin’ nightmare.”
“We used to get people ringing for pizza at my folks’ place. There was one digit’s difference between us and a Margherita with extra pineapple. I’ll leave a message next time – tell her to get off the line there’s a train coming.” I waited, unsure of what to say next, whether to ask her if she was smoking – make a joke of it to show her I didn’t disapprove – or whether to go straight in and broach the subject of her rather premature departure.
“Listen,” I ventured. “I was calling to see if you were OK.”
“Oh, yeah. Thanks, babe. I was going to call you before actually but I didn’t want to wake Michael. I’m sorry I rushed off like that. I only realised halfway down the road how bloody
weird that must’ve seemed but I just wanted to get out of your hair, you know? I thought you guys might need a bit of space.” Another suck, another blow, the thin voice returned. “Last thing you want is some Aussie hippy around the place when you’re trying to have a heart attack, right?”
“Don’t be silly, I was glad you were there to help. That trick with the paper bag was impressive.”
“Oh that? An old yoga trick. It’s psychological more than anything. Some people think it makes it worse – you’re basically breathing in your own carbon dioxide so I kept the bag loose until he’d calmed down.”
“Well, it worked, whatever it did.”
Mikey appeared in the open hallway in a loose, open shirt and jeans, his hair wet. He raised his eyebrows in question. I covered the mouthpiece with my hand.
“Valentina,” I whispered.
He nodded, put a hand on my shoulder on his way through into the kitchen. The smell of shower gel trailed after him. I was aware of him opening cupboards, filling a glass with water, drinking it down. I turned away, so he couldn’t hear what I was saying.
“So is that a joint you’re smoking?” I kept my voice low.
“A little one.”
“Is Red with you?”
“Who do you think rolled the fucker?”
I laughed out loud – out of relief partly, that we were back on track. I said goodbye, hung up and yawned hugely, like a dog.
“Wow,” Mikey said, leaning back against the sink, crossing his feet. I noticed he was wearing his trainers. “You are one tired mummy.”
“I’m always one tired mummy,” I said. “But not forever, eh? And she’s worth it. Think I’ll go to bed actually.” I stayed where I was, too pooped to move.
He checked his watch. “Listen, if you’re going to hit the hay, I might nip back to the office.”
“What?” I looked into his face to see if he was joking. Apparently, he wasn’t. That was why he had his trainers on. That was why he’d pulled on his Superdry hoodie.
“I’ve left my wallet there. At least I hope I have. I can’t find it in my briefcase and it’s really bugging me.”
“But you’ve only just raised yourself from the dead.”
“I’ve had a shower. We’ve eaten. And the rest.” He wiggled his eyebrows, puckered his lips stupidly. “Honestly, Shone. I feel fine.”
I shook my head, scrutinised him. “What the hell do you need your wallet now for?”
“I don’t need it.” He turned, filled his glass again with water and drank half of it down. “I know I won’t sleep unless I know it’s not lost. If it’s not in the office, I’ll have to cancel the cards. I’m worried about the cleaners.”
“Oh, of course. Cannae trust the cleaners.”
“Shona, please. Not this. Not now.”
I folded my arms. “My mother never stole so much as ten pence in the ten years ...”
“God, you’re relentless, do you know that? You’d worry too if you’d left your purse somewhere, don’t pretend you wouldn’t.” He turned back to the sink, topped up his glass once more.
“You’re dehydrated,” I said. “You’re not well enough to go driving about. It’s at least a half-hour round trip. More like forty minutes by the time you’ve had to park up and go in and all that jiggery-pokery.”
“Look, I’ve had a drink of water. I’m rehydrated.” He rolled his shoulders, stretched his neck to the left and right. “And I’m antsy. I’ve knocked myself out of whack with that sleep this afternoon. I could do with a drive or something before I go back to bed.”
How lovely, I thought, to have energy on a top-up system instead of some gaping deficit a mere nap could not hope to repay. “You won’t be long, will you?”
“An hour, tops. You go up. Warm the bed for me.” He kissed me on the top of the head on his way past, grabbed his coat. The front door swung open, clicked shut. The jeep fired up, roared into life. The beam of the headlights swung across the living room wall, the gravel percussive beneath the rolling tyres. Off he went, man on a mission. Raiders of the Lost Purse.
I climbed the stairs with heavy legs. Mikey was right, I was tired, dog-tired. I was already thinking of my pillow: how soft it would be when I laid my head, how soft, soft, soft.
What happens to time once a baby is born? It vanishes – that’s what. Add in an offshore rotation to that and it disappears even faster: hours, days, weeks – pouf! Magic. The tap of wand, the clap of hands, the starry curtain drawn swiftly back and look! The lady’s been sawn in half ... you wake up on a Monday spooned against your husband, you go to bed and search for him once more under the covers. You wake up the next day and it’s two weeks later, it’s Saturday, and he’s already dressed, already leaving for the North Sea. It’s a month later, two: your baby can sit up now, she can roll, grab, jabber away; he’s packed his enormous kitbag; he’s putting on his boots and he’s walking down the stairs and you’re trying to remember whether this is the third trip or the fourth. You follow him to the hallway and find you have no right words to say and he’s kissing you on the mouth, kissing your baby on the head. His tea is still cooling in its mug and the taxi’s honking its horn outside your window and all of it has come around too quickly. He’s at the door, he’s outside at the picket fence, waving. Your tears run onto the back of your baby’s head, you bury your face in her fleece pyjamas and sniff hard, sniff yourself into a braver face, one you can hold up and say brightly to your daughter, wave to Daddy. In this way you hope to teach her to act the way your parents taught you. To be brave. Tell him haste ye back, you whisper in her ear. Tell him be safe. Tell him he’s lucky he gets that helicopter ride, eh? That must be exciting, mustn’t it?
The taxi pulls away. You picture it, weaving down the lane, long after you lose sight of it. You imagine it, pulling out onto the South Deeside Road, revving through the gears on its way out to Dyce Airport. Half an hour later, you ask your baby daughter what she thinks Daddy’s doing now.
“Will he have on the funny yellow safety suit?” you ask her. She’s six months old now, she can sit up but she cannot reply. “Will he be walking across the airfield like a big banana, climbing into the helicopter with the roughnecks? They’ll be huddled together in the big metal fly, won’t they? Taking off like this, they’ll be.” You imitate the sound of the rotor blades:
Chuckachuckachuckachuckachucka. Baby laughs. You do it again. Chuckachuckachuckachucka. She squeals.
“Again? Chuckachuckachuckachucka.”
Chuckachuckachuckachucka. That’s how the helicopter goes. Chuckachuckachuckachucka. That’s the noise the helicopter makes.
Chuckachuckachuckachucka. It’s enough to drive a lonely person insane.
Time. Mikey away in his great Meccano teapot in the middle of the ocean, Val and me whiling away the months. When it rained we spent afternoons indoors, chatting about everything and nothing, or we went into town together in the jeep, in and out of shops, stopping for coffee, sometimes sharing a chocolate muffin, laughing at ourselves, making faces, calling ourselves pigs. In rare sunshine, we whiled away those afternoons in the garden, lying back on a picnic blanket, drinking dry white wine. Summer cooled into autumn but still, out of habit, we sat out as much as we could. I spent so much time with Valentina, sometimes it seemed like I spent more time with her than I did with Mikey.
“I wonder if finding a friend in a new place is actually more important than finding a husband,” I said once.
An October afternoon, a picnic blanket afternoon, the two of us lying on the vast lawn behind the cottage. Sweaters and coats on, scarves and hats, for the sake of being outside. White wine sweating in its chiller jacket, kids asleep in their prams – hedonistic, but still ...
“Of course it is,” she replied. “It goes: friend, hairdresser, husband. In that order.”
“You’re a wicked, wicked woman.” I laughed, hauled myself up on one elbow and rested my cheek on my fist. “Do you keep in touch with anyone back home?”
“Nah.
Drifted around too much. I envy people like you.”
“Me?”
“You’ve got Jeanie and Robbie and those guys, and I bet you still have friends from school. And your brothers of course. I don’t even have siblings. You’re lucky.”
I was lucky. I felt it. Always had.
“I suppose being a yoga teacher’s probably quite lonely,” I said. “Now I think about it.”
“I love my clients, they’re sweeties. But yeah, not exactly rich pickings on the social front. Speaking of which, we should go out. You know, out out. Get drunk in town.”
“But Mikey’s away.”
She raised herself up on both elbows. I couldn’t see her eyes for her sunglasses. “Red can babysit. He’s great with kids, I’ll say that for him. You can bring Isla over to my place and Red can look after the two of them. Isla could sleep over. What do you say? It’ll do you good to cut loose for a change.”
“I’m not sure.”
“Come on, Shona, shake a leg. How long is it since you’ve had a night out?”
“Nine or ten months, I guess. Maybe a year?”
“Bor-ing.” She wagged her finger and tutted. “That’s what you’ll become if you don’t watch out.”
I winced. Couldn’t bear for her to think I was boring. But to leave Isla with someone I didn’t know? Someone who smoked dope?
“Maybe in a month or two.” I got up, wandered over to the pond. A flash of golden armour – the biggest of the carp – the one Mikey and I had christened The Knight. Valentina had lain back down on the rug. She had crossed her arms over her chest and become so still that when she spoke I almost cried out with shock.
“I could lie here all day,” she said.
In the cobalt sky, high up, a bird soared over us, its wings wide, cloak-like. A kestrel, an eagle, a falcon maybe. In the garden, no sound, none at all. To speak was to break like a vandal into a haven. Above, the bird folded itself into an arrow and darted down into the trees. For some shrew or vole this was not a good day.
“Are things better at home?” I asked her.
