‘Hey, hey, it’s all right, think nothing of it. It happens all the time. Honestly.’
‘Does it?’
‘Absolutely. I lost the car keys once and the whole middle-eastern arm of our company collapsed. I’m sorry to hear you’ve not been well.’
See that comical puzzlement again? Is this man having a laugh, or what? Do you think he’s winding me up? Because I really am not sure at this point. His voice is nice, really friendly and warm. Plus he sounds like he’s smiling the whole time, which makes me think he is just trying to get a rise out of me.
‘Um, well, thanks.’ What else can I say?
‘Not at all. Now, please tell me, what do you want to do about this phone situation? Because I am prepared to go to any lengths to get it back. Truly. I will ford rivers, climb mountains, cross deserts, you name it.’
I’m smiling now. It’s a wind-up, got to be. Ten million pounds my arse. I think for a moment. ‘That’s really commendable. But are you prepared to . . . drive to the Ashton Business Park?’
He pauses before saying, ‘Are you suggesting . . . the Blooding?’
I’m grinning now. ‘I am.’
He sucks a long breath in over his teeth. ‘Very well, but you ask a lot. What time, and when?’
When you come off the motorway at our town, there’s a business park there, with lots of shops, restaurants, leisure parks and businesses. Furniture shops, computer suppliers, shoe outlets, that type of thing. In the centre is a kind of square, with a huge fountain in the middle. This fountain has caused a lot of problems for our council because apparently it cost them nearly two million quid. It was the main topic of discussion everywhere you went for a couple of months last year, but not because of the atrocious waste of money it was. This fountain is now a famous landmark around the country because it is the most hideous and offensive thing you have ever seen. It was made by a local artist, and this person was obviously a fan of fox-hunting, because she chose for her subject a twenty-foot-high cast-iron tableau depicting a fox being torn in three pieces by a pack of slavering hounds. You have to look quite carefully to see the fox, or what’s left of it, but the really horrible bit is the dogs. They’re very stylized so they’ve got huge bulbous eyes and elongated noses and these enormous fangs that are just dripping with saliva, or blood, or both. It’s a fountain, so there’s water running constantly out of their mouths. It’s called ‘The Blooding’.
Anyway, this is the place I am thinking about, and the Mobile Man has obviously realized. So almost without intending to, I am arranging to meet him. But I have to give him his phone back somehow, and I’m certainly not inviting him to my home.
‘Tomorrow, three o’clock, call this number. No funny business.’ This is definitely fun, even though I don’t know this bloke. I like him, though.
He laughs out some air through his nose. ‘Very well. Tomorrow, at three, I will call this number. And all business, should there be any, will be extremely dull.’
‘Excellent. Till tomorrow then.’
‘Till tomorrow.’
Now this is Hector McCarthy, sitting on his sofa, in his study, chatting to me on his mobile phone. I was right, he is smiling, and has been throughout the whole conversation. He is clearly delighted with how that went – look at him, he can’t stop grinning. This little bit of unexpected fun has brought a fledgling ray of sun into the dark misery that has been engulfing him lately, and it feels good.
He stands up and stretches, still enjoying the memory of the phone conversation. The way that the Mobile Girl responded to his joke about ransom was really refreshing. Miranda, his ex-girlfriend, would never have done that. She wouldn’t even have understood the point of it.
‘But she didn’t kidnap the phone,’ she would have said, ‘she found it. This is just silly.’ Well, yes, she would have been right, it was silly. But it was fun and that is what Miranda wasn’t.
He realizes suddenly that thinking about Miranda has not cost him a single moment of pain. Surely that can’t have just happened in the past half hour? He wonders how long he has been free of it without noticing. It hurt so much, for so long, he had just got used to the pain being there. But now, apparently, it was gone.
He is just enjoying the giddying feeling of freedom when he hears a crash from the other room, followed by muted but terrified whimpers.
He starts, and runs quickly into the dining room. The sight that greets him sends his newly joyous heart plunging once more into despair.
There is a pool of water spreading out across the floor from the remains of a vase of flowers. The table the vase was standing on is tipped over, as are three of the four chairs. There is a jumble of broken china and glass scattered around the floor, and Hector recognizes the dismembered limbs of his mother’s cherished ornament collection amongst the debris, now no more than a grisly china holocaust.
Hector’s face is no longer smiling. He looks around the room quickly and locates the cause of all this devastation. She is sitting on the fourth dining chair, her feet tucked up on the seat, her arms wrapped tightly around her legs. Her face is slick and white, her damp hair clinging to her head in clumps. Her wild eyes are darting around the room until eventually they settle on Hector and she begins to gesticulate.
‘Get them out of here, Charlie, please, they’re on the floor, look. Please, please, Charlie, get them out.’ Tears stream silently down her face in terror as Hector moves across the floor in two strides and wraps his arms around her.
‘Shhhh, love, come on, it’s all right now, shhh.’
Still she trembles. ‘Please, Charlie, get rid of them. They’re everywhere.’
‘OK, I’ll do it now. Don’t worry.’ Swiftly he fetches a dustpan and brush and sweeps up all the china pieces, every last fragment, and tips them away into the bin in the kitchen. Only then can he coax her up from the chair and persuade her to go upstairs with him.
He sits down on the bed next to her and holds her hand.
‘Are they all gone now, Hector?’ Her dark eyes are looking at him, and this time she sees him, not his father.
‘Yes, love, they’re all gone. For ever.’
Her face is visibly relaxing. ‘You’re a good boy, Hector,’ she says as her eyelids droop. ‘Such a good boy. I’ll ask your father to take you out fishing at the weekend. You’ll like that.’
He smiles sadly, feeling the dampness in his eyes. ‘Yes, I will. Now you go to sleep, OK?’
Her eyes are closed now. ‘OK. Night night, Hec.’
He walks back to the door, then turns, smiling. ‘Night, Mum.’
Chapter Five
SATURDAY 19 AUGUST. The next day. The day of my god-awful godson’s god-forsaken birthday party. Here I am, gingerly pulling back the covers and hauling myself slowly out of bed, looking, even though I have to say it myself, like a corpse rising. Look at my face – sallow, lifeless skin, sunken eyes, graveyard hair. I’ve even got my hands in front of me as I stumble across the bedroom like one of the undead.
It’s my usual habit to have a look in the mirror as soon as I get up to see what the night has done to my face. Generally speaking, I get out of bed looking as if I’m about to go out for dinner, but these last two weeks I have not been sleeping as soundly as usual and the extra tossing and turning during the night is taking its toll. Reaching the bathroom I brave a look in the mirror and am shocked by what I see: toothpaste splatters all over the glass. They’re not huge blobs that distort the image behind them so apart from being surprised that they’re there at all, I’m not a great deal affected by them. I’m leaving them there for now.
Some people don’t bother much with areas of the house that can’t be seen by visitors, like the bedroom or bathroom, but I think that is the height of sloppiness. I’ll admit that with all the stress I’ve been dealing with lately I am not at the height of cleanliness any more, but I’m still on the ladder. I’m just coming down a rung or two.
I lean forward and let the white dots on the mirror go blurry, and
my face sharpens into focus behind them. Immediately I wish it hadn’t and I let it swim away again. It’s ironic, isn’t it, that on this day of all days I look exactly like a godmother?
Being a godmother brings no benefit at all and sounds almost exactly like grandmother, so the image in everyone’s head is a sweet, grey-haired old lady. Or maybe a tubby fairy doing ‘Bibbety bobbity boos’ all over the place. I am neither of those things, as you know; although today, I might as well be. Looking at the blurred, ghostly shape behind the toothpaste splatters, I almost despise myself. Why am I reacting so badly to a silent dump? Is it because this is my first one? Surely it can’t be as bad as this for everyone else?
I am reminded suddenly of Craig Someone who I went out with about two years ago. We were together for less than three weeks and then I had to let him go. He didn’t take the silent treatment well at all.
‘I’ll see you tomorrow then,’ he had said at the end of our final date. He didn’t know it was our final date, of course. I had nodded silently, endured for the last time the wet, sucking black hole that was his rendition of a goodnight kiss and gone home relieved that it was all over.
He phoned from the pavement five minutes later. ‘Just wanted to tell you that I love you,’ he had said, blowing – or rather sucking – wet noises down the line at me. ‘You’re gorgeous, did you know that?’ Well of course I did; I’m not blind. ‘Call you tomorrow, babe.’
He called eight hours later. ‘Good morning, sunshine,’ he shouted down the phone. ‘How are you this fine morning? Can’t wait to see you later, gorgeous. I’ve got a great big surprise for you, babe. You’re never gonna guess what it is!’ I put the receiver down on the pillow, rolled over to the other side of the bed and went back to sleep.
He called three more times that day and left messages on the answerphone, begging me to call him back, pleading with me to forgive him for whatever he’d done to upset me, promising to change, to be the way I wanted him to be. The next day he called seven times, professing undying passion, pure, worshipful love, never-ending devotion. The day after that he lobbed dog shit at my windows and sprayed ‘BITCH’ on my front door with red paint.
But he was a nutcase, I think. The day after the shitting, the police came and peeled him off the lamppost outside my block, where he’d stationed himself for over three hours. Stark naked. He had been reading out alternately from a collection of love poems he had written for me, and a list of all the different ways he was going to cut me.
Soft gentle Rachel, you curl like a petal,
I rest in your arms, my soul is at peace,
You are my world, my everything, my sun, my moon,
The light in my life that darkened too soon.
I’m going to fucking carve my initials in your face, you little bitch.
Touching, isn’t it? I read all about it in the local paper a few days later – I think I was out shopping when all this was going on.
Obviously Craig was already a bit unstable when I started going out with him. Not everyone reacts like that, and I am certainly not going to.
I am going to have a shower and get dressed now, so let’s leave me in peace and go and see what Sarah is doing on this fine sunny morning. This is the joyous anniversary of the day that she bore new life, the day that the wondrous and perfect form of Jake, her first-born child, the fruit of her love for Glenn, the joy of their union, was delivered into the world in a moving, magical and astonishing moment.
‘Fuck it!’ Sarah shouts as the hot baking tray she is just taking out of the oven slips from her fingers and crashes to the ground in a sausage-roll explosion. ‘Oh fuck, fuck, fucking fuuuuuck.’ She descends to the floor at almost the same speed as the sausage rolls and begins to grab them hurriedly, as if she thinks she can do it before the germs on the floor have a chance to climb on.
I’m looking at Sarah, squatting and sweating on her kitchen floor as she scrabbles around in the infernal heat of a kitchen with the oven on for two hours in mid-August, knowing that what she’s working towards is a two-hour-long descent into hell this afternoon that will bring utterly no pleasure to her, only more work, stress and exhaustion and I am struck once again by the unshakeable, unconditional and incomparable power of maternal love. Makes for a crappy Saturday.
I think the world is divided into two kinds of people: those that have got children and those that haven’t. Neither side can understand the other, and each believes that they have got the best deal. Except for the people who have got children, who are all secretly wishing they were on the other side. They all pretend to be deliriously happy with cute little Joshy-Woshy or darling little Emilykins because to admit otherwise would be like confessing to Nazi tendencies or admitting that they like conducting experiments on little fluffy bunnies at the weekends.
But who could possibly prefer being up to their elbows in diarrhoea and vomit on a Saturday night to getting dressed up in a totally gorgeous and sexy outfit, heading out into a smart nightclub, having a few drinks and enjoying some fascinating conversation with some interesting and exciting new friends?
No one. That’s the truth. But I’ll bet if you asked any parent which they would prefer, they’d all say, in a weary, lifeless monotone, ‘Parenthood.’ That’s if you can even make them hear you over the screaming. No one ever admits it because if even one person did, other people would start saying, ‘Actually, I wish I was on the other side too’, and before you know it, millions of people would be defecting and eventually that would mean the end of the human race.
Did you see that? Sarah’s just eaten two of the sausage rolls that went on the floor. Ugh. I wouldn’t do that even in my own flat where I know for a fact the floor has been washed and bleached within the past six months. Thankfully she’s now tipping the remains into the bin, which is a relief. I had been wondering whether she was going to serve them up at the party later. Remind me not to eat anything when I get there.
Only kidding. I never eat the food at parties.
So in the name of the continuance of the species, Sarah is now carrying a kicking and screaming Jake to the car so she can go and collect his birthday cake. Did you notice that she’s on her own this morning? It’s Saturday so Glenn can’t be at work, surely? Let’s go back to first thing this morning and see what happened.
Oh God, no, let’s go forward an hour – I don’t think I can stomach watching the fixed smiles of Sarah and Glenn in their bed, as their newly six-year-old son lands knees first on their stomachs, even though the sun has barely left the horizon.
OK, this is better. Glenn is standing in the kitchen with his coat on while Sarah is laying out seventy-five frozen sausage rolls on a baking tray. They’re not looking at each other.
‘Come on, Sar, you know the money will be useful,’ Glenn says.
‘I’m not disputing that, Glenn,’ she says, calmly and sweetly. ‘I’m just saying that the money isn’t the most important thing here and you could miss the overtime today, just for one day, because it’s your six-year-old son’s FUCKING BIRTHDAY!’ She turns to face him for the last two words and shrieks them into his face. He jumped too – did you notice? Good one, Sarah.
‘I can’t talk to you when you’re like this,’ Glenn says. ‘I’ll be back by the time the party starts.’ And he walks out of the front door.
I wonder where he’s off to. Oh, don’t be so naive, of course he’s not going to work.
Oh look, now Sarah’s crying. I hope the tears don’t land on the sausage rolls. No, actually it doesn’t matter, does it, because we know they all end up in the bin later anyway. If only we could tell her not to bother cooking them.
Back to my flat where I’m showered and dressed and making my way to the kitchen for some breakfast. I’ve left my hair wet today, to give it a rest from the dryer. Mum says I should do that – let my hair relax once in a while – so that it doesn’t get too brittle. I normally do it on days when I’m not expecting to see anyone, when I’m at home and no visitors are coming round, bu
t today I just can’t get the energy together for anything much.
Cosmo is getting on my nerves this morning, weaving in and out of my feet as I walk. Normally, when he does this, I try to avoid stepping on him by dancing around as I walk – I do love him – but today I just tramp blithely onwards. If he’s got any sense, he’ll stay out of my way. I’m vaguely aware of some soft things underfoot once or twice but he’s all right because he scuttles off. Eventually he comes to rest in the kitchen and sits down in front of the cupboard where his food is kept, staring at it intently. It’s like he’s trying to tell me what he wants just with his eyes, like Lassie or Flipper. What’s that, Cosmo? There’s a group of kids trapped in the old silver mine and they’ve only got three hours of oxygen left?
Screw the kids, his eyes say, give me Kit-e-kat.
Yeah, well, I’m hungry too, so I get a bowl out of the cupboard and start filling it with Shreddies and milk. Cosmo is up again and from here you can predict what’s going to happen, can’t you? I move towards the fridge to put the milk away and Cos gets right in between my feet as I move my back leg forwards. He’s squashed between my calves but more importantly my forward momentum carries me on but there’s no foot to receive the weight so I stumble forwards, collide belly first with the counter top, rebound off it, stagger for a terrifying second and then crash with a shriek on to the floor in a milk explosion to rival Sarah’s sausage rolls.
‘Christ, you stupid cat!’ I shout, kicking out instinctively towards Cosmo. Unexpectedly, my foot is right on target and I watch in surprise as Cosmo skates across the floor in slow motion, feet splayed and rotating gently, his eyes wide with shock. When he comes to a halt he slinks away, belly low to the ground and ears flat.
I want you to know that this is totally unlike me. I have never been violent to Cosmo in my life and normally I would be horrified that this had happened. Cruelty to animals is one of my favourite charities.
Thanks For Nothing, Nick Maxwell Page 7
