Monday to Friday Man

by Alice Peterson

  I saw Aunt Pearl handing our mother an envelope earlier. It was from Granny. ‘Megan needs our mother’s support, not her bloody money,’ Mum said angrily when she took out a fifty-pound note. ‘Why doesn’t she visit us? Is she ashamed?’

  We play games and it seems unfair that my baby sister can only watch, but each time I look at her, she’s smiling. I decide Megan is the real miracle in our family.

  Over the following year we’re happy. At mealtimes we sit down together to home-made fish pies. We talk to Megan about our day and ask her what she has done in playgroup.

  Megan becomes the reason why my father starts to come home early from work. He strides into the kitchen and scoops Megan up from her chair before taking her upstairs for her bath. Sometimes I help him. We pile crocodiles, sharks and ducks into the bubbling foam and Dad rolls up his shirtsleeves to support Megan’s head and lean her back gently into the water. After her bath she has to be wrapped in heated towels and dressed immediately.

  Megan goes to bed at the same time every evening and I hear the sound of Mum’s footsteps in the middle of the night heading towards her room, where she will gently turn her over in bed. In the morning Mum lays her down on the sheepskin rug and has to remove all the mucus from her mouth with a suction machine, which is placed over her mouth and nose. She tells me that it doesn’t hurt, that I must remember that it is this machine keeping Megan with us. Everything in the house is sterilized. Mum is always cleaning obsessively.

  At weekends we get out of London. Before Megan was born Nick and I would meet up with school friends, but now we go on day trips, and during the summer we all bundle into Dad’s car and drive to the coast. His car is hot and smells of curry, but I love escaping from the city to explore. Mum wraps Megan in so many layers, saying she looks like an Egyptian mummy. ‘Too hot,’ Megan sometimes protests, but Mum explains to us that it is vital she doesn’t catch a cold.

  Driving to the beach, we play games and sing songs. There’s always music in the house or in the car when Megan is around. My little sister has the voice of an angel. The doctor explained to us that because she doesn’t have to concentrate on movement her brain tells her not to bother with anything but her voice. She is far more advanced in speech than Nick and I were at her age. Before she’s two she knows all the rhymes and songs she’s learnt at her playgroup off by heart. ‘Bobby Shaftoe’ is still her favourite. She has a poster of him in her bedroom.

  ‘How does it go?’ we ask her each time, sardines squashed in the back of the car.

  ‘Bobby Shaftoe’s gone to sea,

  Silver buckles on his knee:

  He’ll come back and marry me . . .’

  Then we all join in, ‘Bonny Bobby Shaftoe!’

  Sometimes we visit Aunt Pearl and she takes us all to the seaside. Nick and I clamber up rocks and play ducks and drakes in the sea. We paddle and collect fossils. Dad picks up Megan and runs along the sand, lifting her high into the air, the wind blowing in her face. Mum and Aunt Pearl run alongside screaming, ‘Don’t drop her!’ One time Anna came with us, and it was so hot that Dad put on his pale-blue swimming trunks and we all laughed at his white legs.

  Dad kisses Mum in public. Sometimes they hold hands.

  On Sundays Mum and Dad take us to church, and Megan enjoys singing the hymns. When I kneel down to pray, I pray that the doctor got it all wrong. Yet I know her time is running out.

  In a week she will be two. Mum is going to bake a cake and we’ve bought her a red velvet pinafore dress for her party.

  ‘She won’t live beyond the age of two,’ Dad had told us that day, after Mum had rushed out of the kitchen.

  That means we have just seven more days left with her.

  She is slipping away from us, like sand slipping through our fingers.

  14

  As I wait for Jack Baker to arrive, I sift through my mail. Bank statement . . . ugh . . . letter from Hammersmith and Fulham Council . . . boring. Ah, now this looks more promising. Rarely do I see a handwritten envelope. I open it eagerly, hoping it’s a party invitation, praying it’s not a wedding invite, or another change of address card.

  ‘The Heron clan Are Moving TO UIST!’

  Another friend bites the dust.

  On thick printed card is an illustration of a mother and father heron holding hands with their two baby herons as they head off into the sunset.

  Jessica, my old sixth-form college friend and her husband Thomas are moving to North Uist, a tiny island in the Hebrides. Thomas is going to learn about the fishing industry and Jess’s plan is to set up a bed and breakfast business. Jess had talked about the move for some time. She was desperate to leave London after having the children.

  ‘Gilly,’ Jessica scribbles on the card, ‘please come and visit soon. We’ll miss you.’

  As I mount the Heron clan change of address card on the mantelpiece the telephone rings. Maybe this will be Jack cancelling? Suddenly I don’t feel like showing anyone round the house.

  ‘Look out of the window,’ Gloria demands.

  I look out and catch Gloria, from her bedroom, frantically pointing to the road, but I can’t make out what she’s mouthing. Then I glance to my left. Parked outside my front gate is a convertible black BMW. I see the profile of a tall man looking at the numbers on the doors, trying to locate No. 21.

  Ruskin barks, sensing that something extraordinary is about to happen, and follows me to the door. Flustered, I pick him up and take him back to his basket in the kitchen, firmly shutting the door behind him. He can be a nuisance when it comes to showing people round the house, nipping interviewees’ ankles. I remain resolute to ask Jack my questions, so have the list ready in my pocket. I rush back to look through the peephole. He’s tall, very tall, fairish hair. He’s coming closer, black leather jacket flung over his shoulder. Thank you, God! I can definitely live with this man! He’s divine. I’m still looking through the peephole when there is a confident knock that makes me stagger backwards. I’m losing my balance. My heel is trapped in something. It’s the bootjack.

  I am about to fall.

  Oh fuck.

  ‘Hello?’ he says.

  I’m lying across my doormat and my head hurts. I’m bruised. I think I’ve broken something.

  ‘Hello?’ he calls again. ‘Is that Gilly Brown? It’s Jack. Jack Baker. The Monday to Friday man.’

  ‘Hi!’ I screech, spreadeagled on the floor. ‘Hang on!’ Have I twisted my ankle – or worse? I look down and my ankle is puffing up before my very eyes. ‘Be with you in one sec!’ I shuffle on my bottom towards the coats hanging on the pegs. I grab the hem of my dog-walking anorak and attempt to heave myself up with it. Instead, a few of Ruskin’s poop-scoop bags fall out of the pockets.

  ‘Hello?’ Jack calls again. Ruskin barks furiously, head pressed against the glass door of the kitchen. ‘Gilly?’ He opens the letterbox now and sees me. ‘Crikey, are you OK?’

  I attempt to pull myself up again. ‘Fine,’ I shrill before collapsing back onto the floor. ‘Actually no, Jack, I’m not great. I’ve had an accident, nothing major!’

  ‘Can I help?’

  ‘Um. No. Perhaps come back in five minutes?’ I suggest before I hear her voice.

  ‘Hi, I’m Gloria from across the road.’

  ‘Jack. Jack Baker,’ he says smoothly. ‘I’ve come to view the spare room. Something’s very wrong I’m afraid,’ he says. ‘She’s on the floor.’

  ‘Oh dearie me,’ Gloria replies, turning the key in the lock.

  Mortified, wishing I could die, better still just disappear in a puff of smoke, I sit in a collapsed heap waiting for them to come inside. ‘Darling,’ she cries out, flying towards me in her purple crocs. ‘What on earth happened, ducks?’

  Jack takes one arm, Gloria the other, and they heave me into a standing position. I whimper as I put my bad foot down. ‘I can’t walk.’

  ‘Oh, sugarplum fairies!’ Gloria says, and Jack and I catch each other’s eye and smile. He has a smile that
draws me to him immediately. I take in his white shirt loosely unbuttoned, his light-brown hair with soft tufts of blonde, coloured from the sun, his blue eyes the colour of Matilda’s nursery paintings of a sky. He has a young, fresh face. Oh no. Maybe I can’t live with him. I don’t want him to see me first thing in the morning. I’m done for.

  ‘What should we do?’ I overhear Jack say to Gloria, jolting me back to reality. ‘Gilly? Can you walk?’

  I move but scream in agony.

  ‘Right,’ Gloria says calmly to Jack. ‘I think she should go to A & E.’

  ‘Fine,’ he agrees.

  And before I know it, Jack has lifted me into his arms, is strapping me into the passenger seat of his convertible, and soon we’re racing down the Fulham Palace Road, heading for Charing Cross Hospital Accident and Emergency.

  15

  When I arrive at the park, I see my doggy crowd in the distance, under the oak tree. It’s like déjà vu. There’s Mari wildly throwing Basil’s spongy blue ball across the grass, which he pelts over to retrieve. Back and forth he goes, his speed as fast as a furious ping-pong match. Ariel’s just arrived and is parking his bike against the tree. He’s dyed his hair back to brown and is wearing a stylish cord jacket, jeans and Converse trainers. He tips out a newly groomed Pugsy from the front basket before giving everyone a good-morning kiss. My heart lifts when I see Sam. There’s something reassuring about seeing everyone return after the summer holidays. There’s an autumnal chill in the air, the copper leaves are falling, no children are in sight and routine is restored. The only person who isn’t here today is Brigitte.

  When Ariel asks why I am hobbling like an old lady I explain that I have a badly sprained ankle. Walter, Sam and Ariel listen patiently as I exaggerate my fall, poor Mari having to hear it for the second time. In my account I don’t crash down onto the floor, my heel wedged in the bootjack. No, no. I fall over with finesse. I find myself looking over Mari’s shoulder.

  ‘He’s over there.’ She rolls her eyes at Sam.

  ‘Who?’ I feign ignorance.

  ‘Hat man,’ Mari says.

  ‘I was looking at that strange dog,’ I pretend, ‘I can’t make out what it is.’

  ‘Gilly Brown, you liar!’ says Ariel, hands on hips.

  ‘You and Guy?’ Sam turns to me. ‘What have I missed?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I say.

  What they don’t understand is that the reason I get on so well with Guy is precisely because there is no agenda. He’s engaged. I can be myself because I’m not trying to impress him.

  ‘Something’s not right with his girlfriend,’ I hear Mari telling Sam and Ariel again. She won’t let it go.

  There’s nothing wrong with his relationship with Flora, that’s just Mari making a drama out of nothing. Typical actress.

  I change the subject, telling them I have a Monday to Friday man who’s moving in to No. 21 tonight.

  ‘Is he hot?’ Ariel asks.

  ‘Very.’ I smile.

  ‘Tonight! That’s quick!’ Mari exclaims. ‘Did you ask him your questions?’

  When Jack and I had returned from A & E that night, he’d picked up the list that was on the doormat, by the offending bootjack. ‘Ask Jack if he has a criminal record,’ he read out with amusement in his eyes. He guided me over to the sofa and helped me sit down. Blushing, I asked for the list back.

  ‘I don’t have a criminal record,’ he said, ‘though there was this one time when I stole a roast potato from my brother’s plate and every now and then I do cheat at racing demon.’

  Great. Handsome and a sense of humour, I thought. Jack could lounge about in his trackie bums any time. He glanced at the list again.

  ‘We really don’t need to go through it,’ I objected in vain.

  ‘Find out if Jack cooks and if he does, set a rota for meal times. Discuss.’

  He paused, stroking his chin. ‘ “Discuss”. Sounds like a school exam. Well, I can just about rustle up eggs and bacon on a Sunday morning, but seeing as I’m only here Monday to Friday, the kitchen remains all yours.’

  ‘Where do you live?’ I asked.

  ‘Make sure Jack doesn’t have BO,’ he read. He erupted into laughter so loud that I thought the walls around us might shake.

  ‘Come close,’ Jack had gestured.

  Our eyes met again. He’s trouble, I thought. ‘It’s fine. You don’t smell.’ He did though. He smelled of expensive aftershave.

  ‘Make sure he likes dogs,’ he continued which reminded me that I needed to call Gloria. After my fall, she had taken Ruskin back home with her.

  ‘He sounds fun,’ Sam claims, impressed. ‘How old is he?’

  ‘Thirty.’

  ‘Thirty,’ sighs Walter wistfully. ‘Makes me wish I was young again. You young these days, tie yourself down to just one shell in the sand . . .’

  Uh-oh, he’s off, we all think, exchanging glances.

  Mari shakes her head, irritated. ‘I’d watch out for this one,’ she says as though she can see something sinister through her crystal ball. ‘I never trust people who are too forward.’

  ‘He’ll be great,’ I reassure myself. ‘And it was good of him to take me to A & E, to give up his evening.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Sam agrees. ‘My husband would have shoved me into a cab.’

  Guy finally approaches asking what we’re all talking about and it’s not long before Basil mounts Trouble’s back. ‘Now that’s forward,’ I point out to Mari, and she shrugs as she lights up another cigarette.

  ‘What does Jack do, Gilly?’ Guy asks as we separate from the group. Mari told me she wanted to get to the shop early today because Bob, her metal and glass man, was calling round.

  ‘He works in television. Produces Stargazer.’

  Stargazer is a singing contest that propels unknowns to stardom. I love it. It’s one of my guilty pleasures.

  ‘So what else? Has he got a family?’ Guy asks.

  ‘Don’t think so.’

  ‘Married? Single?’

  ‘I don’t know. Single, I think.’ I don’t tell Guy about our flirting.

  Ruskin sees a squirrel, chases it unsuccessfully. I ask Guy if we can sit down on the bench as my foot is sore. For the next few minutes we watch people walk by, sitting comfortably in silence, until Guy says, ‘I wonder why he doesn’t have a friend he can stay with.’

  ‘You can’t stay with friends for that long Guy – the odd night, yes, but not months.’

  ‘Where does he live?’

  I’m about to answer, but then can’t remember what Jack said. ‘He did tell me,’ I say. ‘Must be the painkillers, I can’t remember.’

  ‘Oh well, doesn’t matter.’

  ‘I’ll find out tonight.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’ I always know Guy is anxious when he adjusts his hat.

  ‘Gilly, did you get a reference?’ He smiles, but beneath that smile he means every word.

  I shift in my seat.

  ‘I need a base until the show’s over in December,’ Jack had said, giving me the list back, ‘but if you’re still unsure, I can get you a reference.’

  Reference? With an angelic choirboy face like that, who needs one?

  ‘And just remember, if you hate me and think I smell, I’ll be gone by Christmas anyway,’ Jack vowed.

  ‘Maybe you should know a bit more about him before he moves in?’ Guy suggests. I must frown because he adds, ‘A few of my friends have had bad experiences, that’s all.’

  Faintly ruffled, I say in Jack’s defence, ‘He’s not weird, has no pet snake and I like him.’

  He turns to me. ‘Sorry, I’m being insensitive. I’m sure he’s a nice guy.’

  Relieved, I tell him I’m ready to walk on. ‘What’s even better,’ I say, ‘is he doesn’t have much clutter.’

  I smile, remembering what Richard had said. He has an annoying habit of popping into my head. ‘Men have a lot less clutter too. I had this lodger once,
Melanie someone. Nightmare. She’d put all these bloody fruitshaped soaps and candles round the bath.’

  ‘Jack said all he’d be bringing home tonight was one rucksack.’

  ‘Big enough to put his carving knives in?’ Guy says with a cheeky grin, but when he sees my face he apologizes immediately.

  As Ruskin and I walk to the tube station, I tell myself firmly that I will not be put off by Guy’s doubts. Besides, I need the cash and I’ve wasted enough time. I can’t face any more interviews; the search is off. When I see Jack tonight we’ll have a chance to get to know each other. Did he tell me where he lived? I’ll ask him. Tonight.

  16

  ‘That’s right, you’re watching Stargazer, the show that could make your dream come true! We’ve had thousands of auditions all across the UK and now we’ve whittled it down to just fifteen lucky contestants, but tonight one of these will be going home disappointed, their dream of stardom shattered.’

  Susie, Anna and I sit glued to my enormous television watching the sing-off between single mum Lori and sixteen-year-old Steven. Lori goes home. She cries, but through her tears she says she’s doing it for her kids and the crowd cheer.

  Jack should be coming home soon.

  I confess to the girls I’m nervous, that it’s like a first date in that I want to skip all the formalities and get to the comfortable part when I can be myself. I tell them about the chemistry I’d felt that first night. What if I were imagining it?

  ‘I’m sure you weren’t,’ says Anna. ‘Chemistry’s either there or it isn’t.’

  ‘You seriously fancy him, don’t you?’ Susie asks.