The Mum Who'd Had Enough

by Fiona Gibson

  Down here, away from the off-key karaoke and those meaty barbecue smells, I feel calmer. I am right at the bottom of the garden now, at the fence that divides it from the rolling farmland beyond, and I seem to have found a little house.

  It’s a Wendy house, constructed from rather grubby primary-coloured plastic sections. But right now, as rain begins to fall, it seems as inviting as a boutique hotel. I look down at the watermelon tray. How embarrassing, sneaking off with the whole lot. And I gave Flynn a hard time for nicking those whisky miniatures from our cupboard! But never mind. No one will know as, from what I can make out, everyone seems to be heading indoors. While the karaoke machine is protected by an awning, clearly no one wants to stand outside in the rain, and soon the garden is deserted.

  Wiping my wet face with my jacket sleeve, I realise that now would be the perfect opportunity to call a taxi and sneak off home without any fuss. I pat my jeans pocket; thankfully, my phone is still there. Would it seem rude to leave without saying goodbye? Would anyone actually notice? As the rain falls more heavily, I push open the Wendy house door and crouch down to enter it, grateful for a few moments’ respite while I decide what to do.

  Due to my height, I have to stoop considerably as I take in my new surroundings. This was probably Molly’s house before it was Ava’s. It certainly feels as if it’s been here for a very long time. Long grass has grown around its base, and rain patters insistently on the mottled roof. There are just two items of furniture in here: a child-sized table and chair, both with stubby, cylindrical legs. Squinting in the gloom – weak light is filtering in through the tiny window and open door – I lower myself gingerly onto the chair, which wobbles under my weight. For sustenance, I bite into another slice of watermelon. What tastes like neat spirit floods my mouth. I’m wondering now about the effectiveness of tipping in an entire bottle of vodka through a hole, in terms of even distribution of booze. Surely certain areas absorb more than others?

  I pull my phone out of my pocket, with the vague intention of scrolling for a taxi company, and notice a text from Flynn: Okay if I go stay at Max’s tonight?

  Replying takes a certain degree of tussling with auto-correct. Yes no pob, I finally manage to reply after multiple stabbings, hoping that sounds normal. And now, hunched on the teeny baby-chair, and without planning what I’m going to say, I call Sinead.

  ‘Nate?’ She answers immediately, and sounds alarmed.

  ‘Hey, hello there, love!’ I slur.

  There’s a beat’s silence. ‘What’s happening? Is everything okay?’

  ‘Yeah! Just thought I’d call you. I’m at Liv’s barbecue …’ I have adopted my best sober voice, the one I used as a teenager when I’d been out with my mates and would be confronted by my flinty-eyed mother on my return home.

  ‘Oh.’ Sinead pauses. ‘So you decided to go, then?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m here!’ I reply cheerily. ‘I’m here and it’s great. It’s so fun …’

  She clears her throat. ‘So, who’s there?’

  ‘Everyone!’

  ‘Erm, well, that’s good …’ Is it? Why is it good? ‘You sound sort of echoey,’ she adds.

  ‘I’m just inside,’ I explain, gripping the plastic table for support.

  ‘Oh. Right. Well, it’s good that you felt up to it,’ she adds, as if I am no longer her relatively sane husband, aged forty-three, but a fragile elderly relative who has just been released from a psychiatric unit.

  ‘It’s great,’ I babble on. ‘It’s a really great party …’

  She sighs audibly. ‘So, you’re enjoying yourself, are you?’

  I glance around the interior of the Wendy house, with its mouldering plastic walls and beleaguered grass carpet. The tray on the table is littered with watermelon rinds, and yet more are scattered around my feet. I must have scoffed a load more without realising.

  ‘It’s brilliant,’ I reply, rubbing at my scratchy eyes now.

  ‘So, what’s happening?’

  ‘Oh, there’s karaoke—’

  ‘Karaoke?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s great!’ I touch my face, which appears to be wet. As I’m sheltered in here, I don’t think it’s rain.

  ‘But you hate karaoke,’ Sinead reminds me.

  ‘Not anymore …’

  ‘Nate …’ She hesitates. ‘Just how drunk are you?’

  ‘Not at all,’ I fib. ‘Not one bit!’

  We fall into silence, and I register a small, dark thing slithering up one of the walls of the house. Actually, it’s not so small: it’s possibly the largest, fattest slug I have ever seen, glistening and obese. It’s more like a seal, I decide. If I wasn’t so pissed I’d take a picture of it to show Flynn.

  ‘Let’s talk some other time,’ Sinead says gently, ‘when you’re sober, okay? And I’m glad you’re out, having a good time.’ With that, she rings off.

  For several minutes I sit there, a giant on the baby-chair, staring at my phone as if Sinead might burst out of it, or at least text me to say she still loves me. And then I go to check my watch – and it’s not there.

  My father’s watch is gone from my wrist. I kneel down on the ground and fumble about, but it’s so dark I can hardly see anything. I try to turn my mobile into a torch, the way Flynn does with his without thinking about it, but I can’t remember how to do it. Is everything different with this new replacement phone? At one point I must press the wrong thing because my own face appears on the screen, sweaty and stressed, and I appear to have taken a terrible selfie. And then I seem to be muttering to myself through my phone. Is this what they call Facetime?

  Telling myself not to panic, I sit on the ground, breathing slowly and deeply and trying to figure out where the watch might be. It must be in the garden somewhere … but where on earth would I look? It feels like I’ve been wandering all over, for hours.

  Overcome by exhaustion, I curl up on my side on the lumpy ground and close my eyes, with the intention of resting until I can summon the energy to hunt for my watch, and then call a taxi home. But that doesn’t happen. Instead, I find myself drifting away to a happier place where there is no karaoke, no Joleen, and I haven’t turned up booze-less (and wife-less) at a party.

  Rather than sharing a Wendy house with a slug, I am now at the seaside – Scarborough or Whitby, it doesn’t really matter where – and Sinead and I are sitting on a checked blanket in the late evening sunshine. My beautiful wife is leaning on my shoulder, and Flynn is just a little boy, making a giant sandcastle. He loved making sandcastles, and sometimes they’d be so elaborate, with turrets and moats and driftwood drawbridges, that passers-by would stop to compliment him on his work.

  On the day in my mind, we’ve bought him one of those plastic windmills that spin in the wind, and he’s stuck it carefully on top of his castle. I remember this moment like it happened yesterday. It’s the day one of Flynn’s therapists at the hospital had told us she was amazed by the improvement in the strength and coordination of his arms. She even went to find a couple of students so they could meet him and see how brilliantly he was doing. She gave him a jelly lolly shaped like a cat and said he was a hero. To celebrate, we drove straight to the coast.

  And now, just like any other ordinary kid, he is digging away in the sand with his green plastic spade, and I don’t think I have ever felt happier in my whole life.

  Chapter Sixteen

  ‘Christ, boy! Get off me …’

  It’s Scout who’s woken me. No, it can’t be Scout, because I’m not in bed. A quick scan of my surroundings confirms that this isn’t even our house. It appears to be a shed of some sort – have I been taken hostage? – and, more pressingly, I seem to have some kind of beast slobbering all over me.

  ‘Wolfie? Wolfie!’ a woman’s voice cuts through the night air.

  I try to back away from the over-affectionate animal. Now I can see it has greyish fur and a gaping, panting mouth, from which huge canine teeth gleam.

  ‘Wolfie! C’mon, boy!’ the woman’s voi
ce comes again.

  ‘Er, I think he’s in here,’ I call out, remembering now where I am: in a tiny plastic house at the bottom of Liv’s garden. The dog turns – it is definitely a dog – and shoots out through the door.

  *

  ‘There you are,’ the woman exclaims. ‘Were you hiding in that little house, silly boy?’ The footsteps outside grow closer. Please just go away, I will this unknown female, but now a human face has appeared at the child-sized door. ‘Oh, hello!’ the woman exclaims.

  ‘Hello,’ I reply, scrambling up to a kneeling position.

  Her eyes widen in surprise. ‘My God, you’re not living in here, are you?’

  ‘No, of course not!’ I make some semblance of dusting myself down, then stoop to ease myself out of the house. ‘I was just, uh … sheltering from the rain …’

  She looks me up and down as I straighten up. Even in the darkness, she looks faintly familiar, although I don’t remember seeing her at the barbecue. ‘Well, it’s not unheard of …’ She grins. ‘You know how people find someone living in their potting shed, or under their caravan, and they’d never even realised they were there?’

  ‘Yes, haha,’ I say stiffly. ‘But no, I don’t live in there. The facilities are a bit basic, to be honest …’

  The woman laughs. Short and slim, she is wearing skinny jeans, muddied black boots and a huge moss green and unfortunately hoodless jacket. Her drenched hair is plastered to her head. ‘Supposed to be at Liv and Steve’s party, are you?’

  ‘Yep, that’s right.’ I glance down at the grass-stained knees of my jeans, and glimpse further smearings on the arms of my jacket.

  ‘Were you playing hide-and-seek with the kids?’

  ‘No.’ I laugh involuntarily. ‘As I said, I was just—’

  ‘… Sheltering?’

  I nod, aware of her studying my face with amusement. I rub at it with the flat of my hand in case it’s splattered with mud. Miraculously, the sleep I had – and I have no concept of how long I was lying there – seems to have at least partially sobered me up. Less happily, a hangover is already setting in.

  ‘I know you,’ she adds, stepping closer.

  I peer at her in the moonlight. ‘You look familiar too …’

  She chuckles. ‘Don’t you remember me?’

  I shake my head. ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t place you. I’ve had quite a bit to drink, and I’ve just woken up—’

  ‘Well, you’re not someone I’ll ever forget in a hurry. Imprinted on my brain, you are, like some terrible tattoo …’

  I step back from her. ‘I’m sorry …?’

  ‘You don’t look so scary now, though!’ She emits a loud, barky laugh that ricochets across the garden. ‘But I’d never have imagined, with a job like yours, you’d be the type of guy to end up smashed out of your box in a Wendy house …’

  Now it’s starting to make sense. I blink at her, trying to bring her into sharp focus. ‘You’re … Tanzie, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s right. And you’re Nate …’ I nod and take in the sight of her. Her hair is chin-length and purplish, with a tiny fringe like several of Sinead’s art school mates used to have when they were about twenty-two. Only, I know for certain that Tanzie is around forty, and that she failed her eleventh driving test.

  ‘I’m so sorry for all those tears last time,’ she says, as we start to make our way through the garden.

  ‘Oh, please don’t worry,’ I assure her. ‘People react in all sorts of ways. It’s quite normal really.’

  She looks at me and smiles as she clips on Wolfie’s lead. It’s still raining steadily and the night has turned cold and bleak. ‘But you know I’m not usually like that. Honestly – I take most things in my stride. I knew there was a good chance I’d fail. My boyfriend says I’m a crap driver …’

  ‘I’m sure you’re not,’ I say, keen to escape now and call a taxi. ‘Virtually everyone has the capacity to pass with decent tuition.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I made a complete arse of myself that day and I’m sorry. It must be so embarrassing when people do that.’

  ‘I’m kind of used to it,’ I murmur, brushing flecks of grass from the right thigh of my jeans.

  She shrugs and nods towards the house. ‘You going back in, then? Gary said we were invited ’cause he re-floored their kitchen. I haven’t met them myself. But we had a bit of a situation tonight and I wasn’t really in the frame of mind to meet new people …’ Tanzie drops her gaze to her rather forlorn-looking soggy dog.

  ‘Gary?’ I ask.

  ‘My boyfriend,’ she clarifies. ‘Or maybe’ – she shudders slightly – ‘I should say partner.’

  ‘Right. So, er … what kind of situation did you have?’ I know it’s none of my business, but I’m a little concerned about her now.

  ‘Don’t want to get into that,’ she says impatiently. ‘I’m only out because this monster got through the fence and took himself off for a little adventure.’

  I manage a weary smile and glance towards Liv’s back door. Music is audible – We Are Family by Sister Sledge, one of Sinead’s beloved girls’ night in tracks – accompanied by the cheers of a well-oiled houseful all having a wonderful time. I very much doubt if my presence is being missed.

  ‘You know,’ I start, ‘I’ve had a bit of a night of it too. I’ve also managed to lose my watch, so I’m just going to have a good hunt for it in the garden—’

  ‘In the rain?’ Tanzie cuts in. ‘In the dark?’

  ‘Well, er, I need to really. It’s important for me to find it.’

  ‘I’ll help you then,’ she says firmly.

  ‘Oh, no, please don’t do that. It’s a horrible night. I can manage fine by myself, and then I’ll call a taxi home …’

  ‘Sorry,’ she says firmly, shaking her head at my apparent ineptitude, ‘but this time, I’m the one who’s in charge.’

  So that’s what we do, Tanzie, Wolfie and I. We comb the various lawns, rummage in the shrubbery and investigate clusters of abandoned glasses and plates stacked on every horizontal surface.

  ‘You were right,’ I concede finally. ‘It’s too dark and miserable out here to be doing this.’

  ‘I’m happy to keep looking,’ Tanzie says blithely. ‘Is it special to you, this watch?’

  ‘Well, um, it was my dad’s,’ I tell her. ‘It was left to me when he died.’

  She turns to me, aghast. ‘We must find it then!’

  ‘Thanks, but it feels as if we’re just going over the same ground now. I’ll ask Liv to keep a look-out when she’s clearing up the garden, and if there’s no joy, then I’ll come back and have another look …’ I pause and push back my sodden hair. ‘I’m really grateful for your help. It’s so kind of you.’

  ‘I’m just sorry we couldn’t find it,’ she says with a sigh, like a child who’s failed at a treasure hunt.

  ‘Well, we tried. I think I’ll just call a cab now, and wait at the front of the house for it.’ I smile tightly.

  ‘But you’ll get soaked,’ Tanzie retorts. ‘Go inside and make your call from there. I’d better head back home myself …’

  I hesitate, imagining the scenario if I slope into Liv’s house and join the throng with my muddied clothes and possibly bloodshot eyes. I seem to remember phoning Sinead at some point this evening, and crying. What was our conversation about again? I can barely recall it and can only hope I didn’t beg her to come back to me. Will I ever be capable of behaving normally again?

  Tanzie is peering at me, looking solemn now, perhaps picking up on my reticence. ‘I s’pose you feel a bit of a prat, don’t you? Collapsing pissed in the Wendy house …’

  I laugh awkwardly. ‘I didn’t collapse pissed!’

  She chuckles and tugs on her dog’s lead. ‘Okay, I believe you. Tell you what, then – you can come back with me and call your taxi from our place. Gary’s a pain in the arse – he’s had a fair few beers himself tonight – but don’t be scared, he won’t bite …’

  I bl
ink at her, keen to avoid visiting the house of a woman I don’t even know, at least not personally – not to mention encountering this Gary person, with whom she has had some kind of ‘situation’. Christ knows, I have enough of a situation of my own to deal with right now. However, somehow I am unable to access the words to explain why I’d rather wait for my taxi in the street, becoming even wetter. And so I find myself falling into step with Tanzie and her bedraggled dog, in the rain. We leave Liv’s pristine cul-de-sac, and make our way along a nondescript country lane, where the only buildings appear to be tumbledown barns and outhouses.

  ‘We only moved here in January,’ she tells me. ‘We were right in the middle of Hesslevale before, just behind the library, you know?’ I nod, sensing a chill settling into my bones. ‘I loved it there,’ Tanzie continues, ‘being so near to school and work and being able to get a nice coffee and feel like there was life going on around us. But it turned out our place was riddled with asbestos.’ She snorts. ‘Nice to see guys in full-cover body suits storming into the flat you’d rented, oblivious, for three years …’

  ‘So, you had to move?’ I ask, deciding not to mention that I live in Hesslevale too. No need to divulge any personal information.

  ‘Yeah. Had to find somewhere in a real hurry, and this place turned up, pretty cheap.’ She pauses. ‘We’re just down here …’ We turn into an unmade single track road, heavily pitted with rain-filled potholes and bordered by unruly hedges. There are no streetlights here. Tanzie pulls a torch from an enormous jacket pocket, which emits a feeble yellow glow.

  Feeling distinctly out of my depth now, I start to plan my excuse as to why I can’t actually go to her house, not when she might actually be mad, and not planning to merely offer me shelter but wreak revenge for her eleven failed driving tests in the form of an axe through the back of my skull.