‘Why does he play pieces that make you want to slit your wrists?’ Finn asked me.
‘But he’s brilliant. Listen.’
‘This is better.’ He’d put the headphones on me instead. ‘You like Kylie?’ I had stopped hiding my music collection under my bed.
‘I do. So?’
‘So do I. Nice bottom too,’ he’d added, grabbing mine instead.
It was all unexpectedly innocent, that’s what I loved about it most.
The more time we spent together, the less self-conscious I became, as did Finn. But I was aware of letting my friendship with Clarky suffer. I felt guilty but at the same time couldn’t help it. I didn’t want to start thinking about the fact that I had only a few weeks left in Cambridge and then Finn and I would be in different countries. But I did think about it. All the time.
*
‘I thought we could spend the day together?’ Clarky suggested. ‘Have some lunch, see a film.’
‘I’m sorry, I promised Finn. His granny’s coming to Cambridge for the day and …’
Clarky looked surprised. ‘Hardly a hot date with Granny around.’
‘We’re taking her out punting.’ I smiled, remembering Finn’s vow never to take me out on the river. ‘It’s what she wanted to do,’ he had explained, ‘and you’ll soon learn that what Granny wants, she gets.’
Clarky crossed his arms and clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. ‘Grannies tend to be the head of the household. If she doesn’t like you, well, that’s it.’
‘Thanks. I wasn’t feeling nervous, but now I am.’
‘When can I see you then?’
‘Finn’s working tomorrow night so I’m free.’ The moment I’d said it I wanted to take it back.
‘Thanks for making me feel second best, J. Thanks a lot.’
‘I didn’t mean it like that.’
‘Have a good time.’ He shut the door in my face.
*
It was a cold day but the sky was a clear blue and the air was calm. Cambridge was the chilliest town I knew. ‘Wear some extra-warm socks,’ Finn had told me. I walked down the high street which was heaving with enthusiastic shoppers, fellows in their gowns, students on their bikes. I saw the pub where Clarky and I liked to meet after work. I still felt guilty. I had made him feel like a stand-in when Finn wasn’t around. But he also had to stop being snide. Why couldn’t he be happy for me?
Heading towards Magdalene Bridge, I spotted Finn standing by the steps leading down to the water. Beside him was a tall, smart-looking woman in a blue woollen coat and matching skirt.
Finn turned round as if he could sense I was close. He waved and told his grandmother who I was.
I held out my hand. ‘You’re late,’ was the first thing she said to me in a voice that sounded as if she had smoked since the day she was born; either that or she was dying of thirst.
She examined me, just as Finn had. ‘It’s lovely to meet you,’ I said.
She huffed, ‘You don’t know what I’m like yet.’
‘Great, let’s go,’ Finn suggested, taking Granny’s arm and leading her down the steps. She was broad-shouldered like him, with a generous chest, but her legs were as thin as twigs, her long and narrow feet planted in elegant blue high-heeled shoes to match her outfit. I wondered how they carried her weight.
Finn led her to a punt and helped her sit down. ‘Thank you, darling,’ she said, brushing the creases from her skirt once she was carefully positioned at one end. The punt rocked in the murky water. Finn took a striped wooden paddle and his pole. He rolled up his sleeves and stood squarely on the platform at the rear of the punt. ‘Here goes. We call this part of town the Backs, Granny,’ he said, trying to manoeuvre us out into the middle of the river. ‘And it’s called that because you can see the backs of all the famous colleges.’
‘You’re a bit quiet, aren’t you?’ Granny said to me.
‘My father always says, keep silent unless you have something worth saying.’
I noticed the sapphire rock on her finger. ‘You’re the new piece of fluff in Finn’s life, then?’ she continued, unabashed.
‘Er, yes, I am.’ Though ‘fluff’ was hardly the word I’d have used.
‘What happened to that Hatty girl?’ She stuck out her chin, waiting for a response.
I looked at Finn.
‘She had lovely little legs but I didn’t like her,’ Granny continued. She started to twist the ring round her finger. ‘She was a gold digger, that one.’
‘You think all women are gold diggers. Anyway, what was she digging for? I’m a penniless student.’
I laughed in mock disappointment. ‘Shucks! I thought you were rich!’
Granny crossed her arms tightly. ‘My boy’s going to be a successful doctor. You’re a waitress, aren’t you?’ she couldn’t resist adding.
‘Josie’s an artist,’ Finn informed her. ‘She’s got a lot of talent.’
‘Ah, thank you,’ I said.
‘Well, you have, J. So, Granny, I’ll tip you out of the punt if you’re not careful what you say.’
‘Twaddle! He wouldn’t dare.’
‘Finn will be a fantastic doctor,’ I returned the compliment.
‘Ah, thanks, J.’
‘I bet you’re proud of him, Mrs Greenwood?’
She nodded. ‘And he’s going to row for Cambridge. He’s going to be on the box.’
‘No chance! Not fit enough, I drink and smoke too much.’
‘He’s a dreamboat, isn’t he? I tell you, he’s the spitting image of his father.’
I was enjoying the openness of our conversation. Finn’s pole got stuck in the riverbed then and he lost his balance as he tried to retrieve it. ‘Come out, you bastard,’ he muttered. The punt started to rock from side to side and Granny was clutching onto the edge with both hands, her knuckles white. In the end he let the pole go and we started to paddle back to retrieve it. ‘Don’t worry, Finn, you’re doing great,’ I encouraged. A party of children with purple balloons tied on the back of their punt glided past us. A man in a boater hat and green waistcoat was steering them down the river in a beautiful straight line. They laughed and pointed at us. Granny shooed them away with her hand. I was trying not to laugh at Finn’s pained expression; this was his idea of hell. Instead I asked Mrs Greenwood where she lived, how many grandchildren she had and what her husband did.
‘He’s dead. Passed away on St Valentine’s Day, 1992. I cooked him a romantic meal and he expired, just like that. Heart attack.’
I was still trying to find the appropriate response when thankfully Finn stepped in, telling me his grandfather had worked on a luxury liner, organising fabulous cruises. ‘Granny always wears blue, the colour he loved her in best. If I’m half as happy with the woman I love as Granny was with Grandpa, well, I’ll be a lucky man.’
‘My video player has broken down,’ she suddenly announced. ‘I miss not having a good handyman in the house.’
‘What was your husband like?’ I asked.
‘Bobby was the salt of the earth. He loved ballroom dancing.’ Her brown eyes came alive at the memory. ‘I have dancing legs, you know.’ She lifted her skirt to reveal sheer tights and smooth sculpted legs beneath. Not a hair in sight. ‘I’m a freak of nature,’ she boasted. ‘We loved the movies, always sat right at the back, if you know what I mean?’ She was tapping her long nose. ‘Now, on to the things that really matter.’ She raised one eyebrow. ‘What does a girl like you want with my boy?’
‘Granny, you can’t vet every girlfriend I have like this.’
She chose to ignore him. ‘Are you roosting together?’
‘Roosting?’
‘Sleeping,’ Finn filled me in with a wink. ‘Granny, it’s none of your business. Leave Josie alone.’
I smiled wickedly. ‘No, we’re not. I’ve begged and tried every trick in the book, even a black lace see-through dress didn’t work on him, but I figure he’s got to relent sooner or later.’
Granny allowed herself to smile. ‘Hold on to this girl, Finn. I like her!’
‘Funnily enough, so do I,’ he replied, looking directly at me. ‘In fact, I love her, Granny.’
‘Love me?’ I repeated with a dumb smile. I wanted to walk over to him but as soon as I put one foot in front of the other the punt started to rock again, this time more violently. ‘Watch out!’ Granny cried out. ‘We’ll all fall in and this jacket can only be dry-cleaned.’
We missed a canoeist narrowly. Finn and I were laughing madly now. ‘I told you I was no good at this,’ he shouted.
‘All right, Mrs Greenwood, I’ll stay put because I can tell your boy from here that I love him too,’ I said. Granny raised an eyebrow, unmistakable amusement in her shiny eyes. ‘She loves you. You love her. Everything’s dandy. Now, can we get a curry? I’m bored and getting cold.’
‘Praise the Lord,’ Finn said, turning the punt around.
CHAPTER TWELVE
George lies on his bed refusing to get up.
‘It’s your first day back. You have to go.’
‘Leave me alone!’ he screams, bashing his head against the pillow.
With all my might I pin down his legs and pull off his stripy blue pyjamas. George covers his crotch. ‘You’re not allowed to see my bits, Mum.’
‘I’m not looking,’ I tell him, unbuttoning his pyjama top. ‘Hey, how did you get that bruise?’ It’s on his right arm.
‘Football.’
‘Promise?’
He nods without hesitation.
I grab a hand and march him to the bathroom. Finn tells me I spoon feed George but what he doesn’t understand is that George can’t do it. Anyway, the child psychologist told me there was no harm in helping him get dressed. ‘There are bigger things to worry about,’ she’d said, ‘like his education.’
‘I won’t go to school. Over my dead body!’
‘You have no choice,’ I tell him.
*
Ten minutes later I sit on the loo seat watching George splash his face with cold water.
‘Have you brushed your teeth?’
‘Yes.’
I hold up his brush. ‘It’s dry.’
George takes it sullenly and then proceeds to squeeze the tube of toothpaste so hard that an enormous dollop lands on his Mickey Mouse brush and half of it falls onto the floor. ‘Other children don’t need their mummies to brush their teeth for them,’ is a conversation Finn and I have had over and over again. In fact, he and I still argue about pretty much every single aspect of George’s getting washed and dressed routine, so much so that he now won’t take part in it at all.
I bite my thumbnail, trying to hold in the frustration. He kind of brushes his teeth before running back into his bedroom where I have laid out his school clothes. He yanks on his shirt and buttons it up incorrectly – nothing lines up. Is Finn right? Should I be doing it for him?
‘Brush your hair.’ George drags the brush through his hair once before dropping it onto the floor. I pick it up and tell him his hair’s still tangled.
‘What’s he going to do when he’s older? Marry a full-time carer?’ is another typical Finn argument, each word like a blow to my heart.
‘But George CAN’T do it. What part of that don’t you understand? If I leave him he won’t get dressed and then I miss my meeting. What else can I do?’
This is the only time when Finn looks as lost as me because there is no answer. ‘Why don’t we swap roles for one week, see how you get on?’ I had once suggested.
‘Right, gotta run,’ he’d said with a flash of the car keys, a brief glance in my direction and rapid steps out of the front door.
George throws the brush on the floor again.
‘You do that one more time and no pocket money. Remember your tie.’ I go downstairs, telling him he needs to be ready in five minutes. I make myself a strong coffee. Finn is eating a last mouthful of muesli. ‘He’ll never learn,’ my husband helpfully reminds me. ‘Right, I’m off.’ He gives me a perfunctory kiss on the forehead.
After slamming the door on Christmas Day, Finn returned just an hour later. I was still with George, curled up on the sofa with Baby over our shoulders.
‘Can I join in?’ Finn sat down with us and I gave him some of the blanket. He put an arm around me; his hand was purple with cold. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, moving in closer, our heads touching. ‘I was naïve to think it wouldn’t end disastrously. Anything that involves my mother normally does.’
‘You deserve better than your mum.’
‘I’m sorry,’ George copied us.
‘Do you think my mother has a single nice bone in her body?’
‘She must have, she had you.’ His grip on me tightened.
We have tried to patch things up but he deeply resents the way I feel about this pregnancy. He wants to be excited about it but says he can’t even show that now. And I resent him for barely acknowledging my fears and concerns. He treats them as trivial which makes me realise he never fully understood how I felt when George was growing up. There is a big gap between us and we don’t seem to be able to meet anywhere near the middle.
George tears downstairs, no tie on and holding no PE bag. His shirt is hanging out of his trousers and he isn’t wearing any socks.
‘Upstairs, George, NOW! Get dressed properly,’ Finn orders.
‘Don’t shout.’ I take George by the arm.
Finn clamps his briefcase shut. ‘ADHD can’t always be his excuse not to do anything properly. He’s nearly seven years old.’
‘Seven?’ I laugh at how clueless or in denial Finn is. I tell him that Emma’s son, Nat, the British Gas boy, still has to rely on his mother to get him up and out of the front door in the mornings, and he’s eighteen. ‘I’m exhausted,’ Emma wrote to me. ‘Nat was on the internet late last night to a girl and he hadn’t ironed his shirt for work Monday morning and kept on saying, “In a minute, Mum, in a minute.” I didn’t dare go to sleep, thinking he’d leave the iron on … the house would burn down … then this morning he wouldn’t get up so in the end I had to chuck a bowl of freezing cold water on him.’
‘Well done,’ I wrote back quickly, ‘but isn’t it a hassle having to dry all those sheets?’
‘Lose apprenticeship or wet sheets? Tumble dryer is the answer.’
‘Get dressed, George.’ Again Finn ignores what I’ve just said.
‘I am dressed.’ He looks at himself. His trousers and his shirt are on. I know exactly what he’s thinking.
‘No, you’re not.’
‘Dad, I am.’
‘Do I go to work looking like a scarecrow?’
‘I’m not a scarecrow,’ says George, lip quivering.
‘Where are your socks then?’
‘Upstairs.’
‘Well, go and get them.’
George runs back upstairs and a few minutes later returns wearing his socks inside out.
‘At least he’s got them on,’ I say to Finn, who still doesn’t look satisfied. ‘I’ll get his tie.’
Finn shakes his head. ‘Has he taken his Ritalin?’
‘Five minutes ago.’ Give the patient their pill; they get better. If only life were that simple.
Finn picks up his house keys and heads towards the front door. ‘Have a good day,’ I call out as mechanically as Finn’s earlier peck on the forehead. I hate it when he leaves like this. It only takes the everyday grind of getting George ready for school and we’re straight back to playing harassed husband and wife, unable to communicate. George is now preparing food for Rocky, heaping great spoonfuls into his bowl with gravy dribbling onto the clean white shirt that I ironed yesterday.
I go upstairs to get him another one. I attempt to hold him still while I put it on, followed by his half-chewed tie. George bangs my coffee mug against the table and some of that goes on his sleeve but I’m not changing this one. ‘Won’t go to school,’ he starts to chant. ‘Won’t go to school.’
‘You’re going whether you
like it or not.’
‘Can we go to the Science Museum?’
‘Nope.’
‘Can we go to your special clothes shops, Mum, not the toy shops?’
‘NO.’
Finally he is dressed. George puts Baby into his PE kit, along with his plimsolls and Aertex shirt. He takes his canvas satchel with homework and textbooks. I frogmarch him to the car and he struggles against me as I try to put on his seatbelt. ‘I HATE you,’ he screams when I shut the car door. ‘Hate you, hate you, HATE YOU.’
*
I drive. Neither of us says a word. I should enjoy the rare silence but instead the air feels spiked with tension.
‘Mummy?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can we start the day again, please?’
My shoulders relax as I stop at the traffic lights. I turn to him. ‘Yes, I’d like that.’
George smiles. ‘And how are you today, Mummy?’
‘Very well, thank you, George. How are you?’
‘Very well too, thank you. Did you know that Mercury is the closest planet to the sun?’
‘I didn’t. How interesting.’
‘The sun is about four point five billion years old, did you know that? Can we have some music?’
‘Yes, go on.’ He flicks in between the music stations, unable to settle on any particular one. I blot out the noise, an art at which I have become skilled. Kylie’s ‘Locomotion’ starts to play loudly and the mood changes instantly as we both start to sing. When we stop at a red traffic light I turn the volume down. There’s a tall man in a black cloak, with long bushy hair and a wispy beard, twirling around a lamp post, declaring at the top of his voice, ‘JESUS IS LOVE! HE HAS COME TO SAVE US.’
He’s wearing enormous headphones that are connected to a sound system in a bag slung across one shoulder and crossing his middle.
‘JESUS IS HERE!’
We both can’t help laughing at this funny sight. ‘Where is he?’ asks George, leaning out. I try to pull him back in.
You, Me and Him Page 10
