The Reinvention of Martha Ross

by Charlene Allcott

  ‘Course, I’m sure you’ve had more important things to think about.’ As if in answer to the question my phone rings.

  ‘I’m sorry, I have to take this,’ I say.

  ‘No probs,’ says Cara, ‘gotta see a man about a dog anyway.’ Cara leans over and gives me a quick kiss on the cheek before dropping a twenty-pound note on to the table and sliding out of her chair. I make sure she’s out of earshot before I take his call.

  15

  ‘HELLO?’

  ‘Hey,’ says George. ‘How you doing?’ I had expected his voice to be faint, distorted and eroded by distance but it’s strong and clear and very sexy – he could do voiceovers for luxury car adverts.

  ‘I’m good,’ I say. ‘Thanks for calling. Does it feel weird?’

  ‘A little,’ he says, and he sounds relieved, ‘but in another way not weird at all.’ It’s what I’ve been waiting for my whole life, someone who knows exactly the words to make everything OK.

  ‘Where are you?’ I ask.

  ‘It’s gonna sound crazy but I’m sitting overlooking a waterfall.’

  ‘Wow,’ I say.

  ‘Yeah,’ says George, ‘it’s pretty amazing but it would be better to share it with someone.’ I feel my face grow warm. ‘What you been up to, you’ve been quiet.’

  ‘I was on my meditation retreat,’ I say.

  ‘Cool,’ says George. ‘The ten-day silent retreat I did was intense. I learned a lot about myself though.’

  I think about telling Guido where to go and say, ‘Yeah, me too.’

  ‘I can’t believe how much we have in common,’ says George.

  ‘I know,’ I say. ‘It’s like—’

  ‘Fate.’

  ‘Or something.’ We are silent for a few seconds.

  Finally, George says, ‘How was your day with the boy?’

  ‘Boy?’

  ‘Your son.’

  ‘Oh, of course,’ I say. ‘It was great.’ I tell him a little bit about Moses, about how funny and crazy he is. George makes appropriate noises in response, noises that Alexander couldn’t even muster up.

  ‘What did you want to talk to me about?’ I ask when I’ve finished.

  ‘Oh, the children thing; a message seemed a bit impersonal.’

  ‘That’s OK,’ I say.

  ‘I was engaged a few years ago. We wanted to have children.’ And here it is: after all the messages and all the longing, he’s going to tell me that he’s scared of commitment because he had his heart broken by some tramp. ‘She died,’ he says.

  ‘Oh,’ I say, ‘I’m sorry … How?’

  ‘She was sick,’ he says. ‘I knew when I met her but I was hopeful.’

  ‘That’s so sad,’ I say. In fact, it’s tragic. ‘Thanks for telling me.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ says George. ‘I wanted to. You know, talking to you I feel so much less alone.’

  ‘I know,’ I say, ‘it’s weird.’ I’m annoyed I’ve said ‘weird’ again; I’m no poet but my vocabulary is more developed than that. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I’m a little tongue-tied – you make me feel like I’m a teenager or something.’

  ‘I couldn’t have put it better,’ he says. ‘I feel like I’m about sixteen but that’s the way I want this to feel.’ He doesn’t define ‘this’ because he doesn’t have to. We both know what ‘this’ is; this is the start of our story. ‘It kinda feels like our first date,’ he says.

  ‘A waterfall is quite an impressive first date destination,’ I say. ‘How will you top it with our second?’

  ‘Where would you like me to take you?’ he asks.

  ‘Well, if I get a free choice, The Salt Room,’ I say. The Salt Room is a beautiful restaurant on the seafront. I had dropped hints for Alexander to take me there for months and when the hints did not prove effective, I simply begged. He said it sounded pretentious, which is not something he had ever seemed to have a problem with before.

  ‘I can do better than that,’ says George. ‘How about Paris?’

  I don’t like France. I know that’s a ridiculous statement, like those people who say, ‘I don’t like music,’ as if music is a singular thing. I know that France is a tapestry of people, cultures and climates but I have been several times and on each occasion I’ve felt as if everything – the people, the food, the architecture – was silently judging me. I like that George has chosen Paris, though, because of what it represents; nothing says ‘I choose you’ more than a stroll along the Seine.

  ‘I could deal with Paris,’ I say, and George laughs. I love the feeling of making him laugh.

  ‘So, we’ve been to a waterfall and to Paris – what next?’

  ‘A walk along the beach, obviously,’ I say.

  This is the sort of thing I would suggest to Alexander from time to time, lightly; very, very casually. He would snort as if I had made a wry joke. Once I described to him how a colleague’s boyfriend had sent her a huge bouquet of long-stemmed roses to the office, with a note that read, ‘Because it’s Tuesday.’ Alexander, who was watching Top Gear at the time, did not remove his eyes from the screen as he said, ‘I’m so glad we aren’t one of those couples that go in for all that obvious stuff.’ It’s not that there was no romance in our relationship, it’s just that, as Alexander said, it wasn’t obvious – you had to seek it out; you had to remain aware at all times, or risk missing it.

  George says a walk on the beach sounds perfect, so I leave the rest of my drink and Cara’s money on the table and walk down to the seafront.

  ‘It’s cold,’ I say.

  ‘We better get coffee then,’ says George. He’s quiet as I buy an instant coffee in a plastic cup from a hatch on the seafront. I settle on to the pebbles to drink it.

  ‘This is romantic,’ I say.

  ‘It sort of is,’ says George. ‘I’m supposed to ask you about your hopes and fears now, right?’

  ‘Oh God, no,’ I say. ‘Don’t kill my buzz.’

  George laughs. ‘But seriously,’ he says, ‘what do you want?’ The question shouldn’t be as complicated as it is but I’ve spent so long denying or ignoring what I want that I struggle to find a definitive answer.

  ‘I want to stop running,’ I say. ‘I feel like I’ve lived every day of my life waiting for it to begin.’

  ‘I know how you feel,’ says George. ‘I felt the same way until Cass died. Then I realized that what I was running to or from probably didn’t matter.’

  ‘Is it time to stop running then?’ I ask.

  ‘I think it is,’ he says.

  ‘I’m really cold now,’ I say.

  ‘OK, I’ll let you go,’ says George.

  ‘No, no,’ I say. ‘Walk with me.’

  ‘OK.’

  I get up and start to stumble across the pebbles. ‘I’m walking towards the pier,’ I say. ‘Did you know Brighton Pier was erected in 1903?’

  George laughs. ‘Was it?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ I say.

  ‘Tell me the real story,’ says George, ‘your story.’

  ‘All right,’ I say. ‘I had my first snog under the pier; it was with a boy called Tyler. He lived in a caravan.’

  ‘He lived in a caravan? How old was he?’

  ‘With his dad!’ I say. As I walk under the pier the smell of stale urine takes me back to the moment, the highlight of one of those endless summers of childhood. I tell George all my pier stories: Leanne and I trying our first cigarettes followed by her vomiting violently; a guy I once met and spent the afternoon with, who told me about all the adventures he had had, and only years later did I realize he had been homeless.

  ‘Where are you now?’ asks George.

  ‘I’m walking in front of OhSo, it’s my favourite bar.’ OhSo is right on the beach, and in the evenings they set up environmentally evil heaters. When I drink there I always forget to go home.

  ‘I love it there too,’ says George. ‘I can’t wait to take you.’

  I smile. ‘I’m smiling,’ I tell him.

 
‘Me too,’ he says.

  We walk the length of the beach. It’s dark by the time I get to the end and I realize I’m going to need to take a bus home.

  ‘I should go,’ I say, as I make my way back up to the road.

  ‘I hate shoulds,’ says George.

  ‘Me too, but this is a real one,’ I say.

  ‘Thanks for a lovely date,’ says George.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I think this is where I kiss you,’ says George.

  ‘It absolutely is,’ I say. We end the call. My fingers are so cold I can barely work the buttons on my phone but inside I’m burning up. That was the best date of my life and he wasn’t even with me; I can’t help but imagine how good it will be when he is.

  ‘What have you been up to?’ says Mum as I walk into the living room with a smile still plastered on my face.

  ‘Walking,’ I say.

  ‘You’ve been drinking,’ she says, narrowing her eyes, ‘your face is all red.’

  ‘No, I’ve just been walking.’ I sit down beside her on the sofa. Mum shifts as if to make space for me, although there is plenty.

  ‘Moses is in bed,’ she says. ‘You’ve missed him.’ It’s early still; I imagine her drugging him to prove a point.

  ‘I’ll see him in the morning,’ I say. I pick up the remote control and start to flick through the channels, although I can’t really concentrate on what is on each one. Mum takes the remote from my hand and places it on the coffee table.

  ‘Your dad and I are worried about you,’ she says. I look at Dad in his chair; he looks like a dog caught with a chewed slipper.

  ‘You don’t have to be worried about me, I’m fine. I’m better than fine.’

  ‘OK,’ says Mum, ‘we’re worried about Moses.’

  ‘Why?’ I ask, elongating the word with practised insolence.

  ‘You just seem to have, what do they call it, checked out. Motherhood is not a part-time thing.’

  ‘I know that, Mother,’ I say.

  ‘Great. What are you planning to do about it?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, you can start by getting up with him in the morning.’ I am up in the morning but I hear her fussing around with him and I worry about being the extra cook that spoils the broth. I can tell Mum is preparing to unleash a full litany of my errors and I don’t want to give her the satisfaction.

  ‘I agree,’ I say. ‘I’m on it; in fact, we’ve got a lovely day planned tomorrow. I’m going to get ready for bed so we can start early.’ Mum purses her lips; I feel a fizz of satisfaction at having sabotaged her intervention and leave before she can come up with a response.

  I go up to my room and lie on the bed. The frustration I feel with my mother becomes wrapped in a layer of anger, like one of those turkeys stuffed in a duck. The anger is directed towards Alexander, or more specifically the question, what is his part in this parenting fail? Perhaps Mum is right – I should be spending more time with my son; but I also deserve a decent break, a break that should be given to me by his father. It has always been this way, as if Alexander was just an innocent bystander in the car crash of parenthood. I remember when Moses was little, I would do all the feeding and the burping and the bouncing whilst Alexander would just eye him suspiciously. If I asked him to do anything he would express complete incredulity. Sometimes he would offer that the baby was ‘too small’ for him to handle. Of course, if there were ever witnesses he would be chucking Moses around like a beach ball.

  One evening, completely floored by the combination of exhaustion and responsibility, I told Alexander I was taking a bath and asked him to watch Moses for an hour or two. Twenty minutes into my soak I felt like I was beginning to regain access to who I was before my labour and Alexander knocked on the door.

  ‘Where do we keep his pyjamas?’ he said. I heaved myself from the tub, dripping water through the flat as I got a fresh Babygro from the chest of drawers in the nursery. I can’t believe I handed it to Alexander and didn’t shove it down his throat. I think about ringing my ex and telling him I’m dropping off his son for a week but the thought of doing it makes me feel outraged on Moses’s behalf. Alexander can disregard me if he wants to but my child should never feel anything but wanted. Instead I ring Greg.

  ‘Hey, buddy!’

  ‘Are you doing anything fun with the girls tomorrow?’ I ask.

  ‘Yeah, we’re going to the zoo. Wanna come?’

  ‘Yes please, we’d love to.’

  ‘That’s great,’ says Greg. ‘Have you got a car seat? We’ll pick you up.’

  I give Greg our address and he says he’ll be with us at ten. Moses needs two parents, and if necessary I’ll parent for two.

  16

  GREG HONKS HIS horn at precisely ten. I tell Mum to watch Moses for a second whilst I run out with the car seat. Greg gets out of the car to meet me. We haven’t seen each other outside the office before and it feels slightly wrong; I don’t know how to greet him. I lean in to give him a kiss on the cheek and, at the same time, he tries to give me a hug; immediately I try to convert my kiss to a hug and he tries to redesign his hug into a kiss. We untangle and smile at each other stupidly.

  ‘Need help with that?’ asks Greg. He nods to the car seat on the pavement.

  ‘Nah, it’s tricksy,’ I say. I open the car door and heave the seat inside. Greg’s two daughters stare at me as I do so.

  ‘Hi,’ I say, ‘I’m Martha.’ They remain silent. I strap the seatbelt into the car seat but I struggle to latch the belt into the clip.

  After watching me grapple with it for some time, the bigger of the girls says, ‘You’re doing it wrong.’ She takes the belt and smoothly clips it in.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say. She returns to silence.

  Mum carries Moses out. ‘Have you got extra clothes in the bag?’ she asks.

  ‘Of course, Mum,’ I say. Greg extends his hand; Mum hands Moses and the change bag to me before shaking it.

  ‘Lovely to meet you,’ Greg says.

  ‘Hello,’ says Mum. She has this ridiculous coquettish look on her face. Mum thinks every man is a heartbeat away from falling in love with her.

  ‘Let’s move!’ I shout. I bundle Moses into his seat. He chuckles at the girls who, unable to resist his charm, laugh back at him. Greg tells Mum to have a nice day and climbs back into the driver’s seat. As I go to get in myself, Mum gives me an awkward and unaccustomed hug.

  ‘Have a lovely day,’ she says. ‘If he likes it maybe we can go next week?’

  ‘Sure,’ I say.

  In the car I clap my hands together. ‘Where are we going!’ I cry. No one says anything. ‘To the zoo!’ I answer myself.

  Greg laughs and pulls away. ‘The zoo it is,’ he says.

  Greg introduces me to the girls. ‘This is Charlotte and Lyra,’ he says. They don’t say anything. He makes pleading faces at them in the rear-view mirror but they won’t concede. ‘They’re shy,’ he says. I twist round in my seat to look at them. They don’t look shy, they look mean. ‘Charlotte just lost a tooth so she’s self-conscious,’ says Greg. Charlotte folds her arms and breathes out heavily. I can tell she is furious at her father’s indiscretion; I fear for her future partners.

  ‘Ugh, is it sore?’ I ask. She looks at me but doesn’t respond. ‘You know what helps with that,’ I say. She doesn’t speak but I sense a slight shift in her energy. ‘Singing.’ I turn up the radio and Taylor Swift’s ‘Shake It Off’ fills the car. ‘The bakers gotta bake, bake, bake, bake, bake,’ I sing.

  ‘Noooooo!’ squeals Charlotte. ‘That’s not how it goes.’ She is smiling broadly now and I can see the space where her front tooth used to be.

  ‘Oh no, how does it go?’

  Charlotte sings along with Taylor. Her sister joins in for the last part of the chorus. I love watching them express themselves so freely and joyously. Moses tries to join in, clapping and wiggling from side to side. I look over at Greg and he looks back at me for a second and winks. />
  Even though it’s drizzly the zoo is quite crowded. By the time we get to the front of the queue the kids are fractious and eager to get on with it. Greg chats to the guy at the ticket booth for a couple of minutes and then waves us through. ‘How much do I owe you?’ I say.

  ‘It’s OK, I had a voucher,’ says Greg. ‘What first, girls?’

  ‘The monkeys!’ they shout in unison.

  It’s only when we’re standing in front of the primate enclosure that I remember that sometimes zoos depress me. They’re so sad. I imagine the animals all knowing that their peers are somewhere living it up in the jungle or wherever. I find the attempt to recreate their natural habitat the most upsetting part. The concrete rocks can’t compare to anything in the great outdoors; it kinda makes me think they should just give up and go in a completely different direction – base the enclosure on a New York cityscape or something. The girls press their noses up against the glass, and the apes look back at them with very human expressions of tedium.

  ‘They’re not monkeying,’ says Lyra. She thrusts her bottom lip out and looks to her father. Oh, how I miss those days, when I still held the belief that my dad could fix anything.

  ‘Oh no,’ says Greg, ‘do you think they’ve forgotten how to monkey?’ Lyra nods sadly. ‘I better show them then,’ he says. Greg takes on an ape-like stance and starts to sidestep along the glass, scratching his head and his armpits and making monkey noises. Lyra begins to giggle. Greg exaggerates his actions further, pretending to sniff other families and beating his chest. Both girls and Moses are in hysterics.

  Lyra looks up and points. ‘Look, Daddy, you showed him how to monkey!’ A large ape is swinging down from a branch at a pace that its size belies. Once on the ground it picks up even more speed, charging towards us with bared teeth. When it reaches the spot where Greg is putting on his show, the ape stretches up to full height and bangs on the glass. The girls both jump back, and the crowd takes in a collective breath.

  ‘Hmm,’ says Greg, ‘maybe he’s not in the mood for a lesson today.’ He gathers up one girl in each arm. ‘Shall we go, ladies?’ The girls nod yes. ‘Good day to you,’ says Greg to the ape before leaving the enclosure. Once outside we all look at each other and dissolve into laughter.