You, Me and Him

by Alice Peterson

  ‘I’ve got to see him.’

  ‘J, let it be.’ He took my hand possessively, trying to draw me back in. ‘He’s not worth it.’

  ‘You don’t know him like I do. You don’t see everything I see.’

  Clarky coughed. ‘I hope not.’

  ‘He is worth it.’

  ‘Is he?’

  ‘If you met someone, had the best time with her … and then nothing, no explanation, wouldn’t you want to find out why?’

  He let go of my hand, as if finally setting me free. ‘Right,’ he said, stepping away from me. ‘Go.’

  ‘I’m going to miss your supper.’ My stomach was so knotted with nerves I knew I couldn’t eat anyway.

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, J, just go.’

  ‘Clarky, what’s wrong?’

  ‘Stupid onions.’ He wiped one eye. ‘Mum says I should cut the root off but I always forget.’

  I blew him a quick kiss before I ran out into the cold night air.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  It’s the weekend. George survived the first week of term without a detention. As a reward, I allowed him to stay up for an extra half an hour on Friday night.

  I am furious with Finn. He’s playing golf this weekend. ‘It’s tradition,’ he had argued. ‘I thought you knew it was this weekend?’

  ‘Oh, I should have known! Did you tell me via sign language or was it telepathy?’

  ‘It’s the Sperm Bank Cup, J.’ It’s called the Sperm Bank because every year one of the boys has to buy a trophy for the winner. When it came to Finn’s turn, having left himself no time to buy one, the only thing he could find was a trophy in the shape of a sperm.

  ‘I wrote it on the blackboard, George must have wiped it off.’ I knew he was lying then.

  My precious Sunday, my one day off, has now been flushed down the plughole. I haven’t painted for weeks. All my plans to try and build up a portfolio aren’t happening. I hate it when I don’t get any time to paint. ‘Go,’ I snapped at him then. ‘Have a great time, but next weekend you’re on duty.’

  ‘I’m working next weekend. On-call. Mmm, this is delicious.’

  ‘Fine.’ I started to clear the dinner plates.

  ‘Hey, I haven’t finished!’

  ‘Who’s going to take George to the car-boot?’

  ‘You?’ He looked guilty because he couldn’t say it to my face.

  I dropped the plates in the sink. Water slopped onto the floor.

  ‘You take me for granted. And don’t you dare tell me I’m hormonal!’ I shouted halfway up the stairs.

  He has gone to a golf club in Berkshire. I didn’t hear him leave this morning.

  Thankfully I have signed George up for some weekend tennis coaching and the course starts today. It’s for six to ten year olds, every Saturday morning.

  He runs into the kitchen dressed in purple shorts, a bright orange T-shirt, his knee-high grey school socks which show off his knobbly knees, stripy sweat bands over his wrists, and finally his purple swimming goggles. ‘Where’s Dad?’ he asks.

  ‘He’s at the Sperm Bank,’ I say without thinking.

  ‘What’s the sperm bank?’

  ‘He’s playing golf and you’re not …’ I look at him again to make sure ‘… going to a fancy-dress party.’

  I march him back upstairs. ‘But, Mum, I want to look cool.’

  I walk into his bedroom as if I am walking on stepping-stones to avoid the mess. When I open the wardrobe the door hits a pile of junk. I take out a blue tracksuit and white aertex shirt. ‘Do you want to look different from everyone else?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Put these on then.’ I try to take the goggles off him.

  ‘Bitch!’ he yells, hitting my arm hard.

  ‘What did you just say?’

  ‘Bitch,’ he repeats.

  This is when I need Finn. ‘Where did you hear that word?’

  ‘Eliot.’

  ‘Don’t you EVER say that word again. It’s horrible and it hurts me. Have you washed properly?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I go into his bathroom. George has dropped his towel into the bath. I fish around in the sink to retrieve his toothbrush and the soap which is a buttery mess now, congealed and misshapen. I go back into his bedroom but the tracksuit and top are untouched. ‘Wear what you like then, George. Downstairs in five minutes for breakfast.’

  I turn on the kitchen radio. ‘We have become a society of pill-popping addicts, John. Why are children given Ritalin?’ I stop what I’m doing and listen carefully. ‘It seems very extreme to give kids pills these days just to keep them quiet.’

  ‘Is it lazy parenting?’

  ‘Excuse me?’ I shout out.

  ‘Yes, John. Parents should teach their children how to behave.’

  ‘Right, it’s all my fault then. Wanker.’

  ‘Our generation never had this type of problem. These kids need to stop sitting in front of the computer all day long and take some exercise.’

  ‘OH! That’s what we need, is it? George can play tennis, that’ll fix it. Tosser!’

  ‘A good diet helps too. Children eat too much junk food. All children wriggle about and have short attention spans, that’s normal. Goodness, I was a manic little thing! There’s no need to put a label on children like this and drug them. It’s a phase they’ll grow out of.’

  ‘What? When they’re ancient and decrepit? Come and live with us, you’ll soon get the picture. Idiot.’

  ‘ADHD – myth or fact. Why don’t you call us with your views? But now for some mellow music to put you in the mood for the weekend …’

  I turn it off.

  *

  ‘Honey or jam, George?’

  ‘Don’t mind.’

  ‘Right, jam it is. Cheerios or Shredded Wheat?’ I place a glass of orange juice on a coaster in front of his plate.

  ‘Don’t mind.’ He moves the glass away from its coaster and places it on the edge of the table, where he can reach it with minimum effort.

  I hand him both cereal boxes and take Finn’s advice, telling him to decide for himself. I move the glass back onto its coaster. George takes the Cheerios box and turns it upside-down, the entire contents falling into the bowl and spilling over onto the table and floor. Like a chess move he pushes the orange juice back to the edge of the table.

  He eats about three rushed spoonfuls and then jumps up, knocking over the glass. It’s plastic because this happens all the time. He runs over to the television and turns it on. He tells me he wants us to take Rocky to the tennis club. He doesn’t understand that pets aren’t allowed. I’m wiping the orange juice off the floor as he asks me again and again and again.

  *

  I drive us to the gym in silence.

  ‘Mummy, can we start the day again, please?’

  Shoulders drop. ‘Yes, I’d like that. How are you?’

  ‘Very good, thank you, Mum. How are you?’

  As George is talking I say a prayer that he will behave during the tennis lesson.

  I liken trying to find a hobby that suits him to the dating game. It all starts off well and then we get that ominous telephone call two weeks later from the coach, saying, ‘I’m sorry, it’s just not working out.’ I have to break the news to George and when I see his face trying so hard not to crumple in front of me, we go and get Baby and sit together on the sofa for a minute, both of us wrapped in the warmth of the blanket. As I hear his rapid breathing against my chest, I say gently, ‘I’m sure it’s not you, Georgie, don’t take it personally.’ He then flings the blanket off and says, ‘It’s all right, Mum. I don’t care.’ And he’s on to the next date. We’ve tried non-contact rugby, football, even gymnastics.

  ‘Nat tried Tai Kwon Do, Judo and Karate, but all he did was jump on the other children,’ Emma wrote. ‘Have you tried tennis? Nat’s quite good at that.’

  I park the car. George pulls impatiently on the door handle but it’s child-locked. ‘Listen to the tennis coach, and don
’t talk to the other children when they’re trying to hit the ball.’

  He nods.

  ‘Wow! Look over there!’

  As he turns I pull his goggles off.

  ‘Mum!’ He cradles his head as if in pain.

  ‘Trust me, darling, I’m doing you the world’s biggest favour.’

  *

  I am on the cross-trainer and can see the tennis courts through the glass walls. Most of the children are wearing tracksuits and Nike or Reebok tops and they all have flash shoes and racquets. The tennis courts are bright blue, the colour of the sea. They make me feel dizzy.

  The coach is young with fair hair. He wears a bright red tracksuit with a navy sweatshirt. His name is Paul Lobb. I explained to him that my son is ‘a little hyper and gets restless. By the way, great surname,’ I added. Finn once told me there was a dermatologist at the hospital called Dr Cream.

  Paul seems to be shouting some instruction because they all put down their racquets and start to jog around the two courts. I can’t hear anything through the plate glass. I lose my footing as George starts to pull at another boy’s T-shirt, pulling it so tight that the boy has to stop running and then George overtakes him. The boy turns round furiously. Paul intervenes. I adjust the pace of the machine but press the wrong button because it starts to accelerate rapidly. The woman next to me gives me a funny look.

  The boys gather in a huddled circle to hear Paul’s instructions. He’s showing them how to bounce the ball up and down on the racquet. George is at the edge, out on a limb. He picks up a ball and hits it with all his strength across the two courts. It lands in the netting. When he catches my eye I wag a furious finger at him. ‘BEHAVE,’ I mouth and lose my balance on the machine again.

  They start to scatter around the court to try out the exercise. George nudges one of the children who is deep in concentration. Oh, lord, what’s he saying? The other boy pelts the ball straight into George’s eye and I nearly fall over. ‘Oh, shit,’ I shout, only to be met with yet more stares.

  *

  George is busy trying to buy some crisps even though I said he couldn’t. I didn’t give him any money so he’s thumping the machine instead.

  ‘Freak!’ one of the boys on his course mutters as he walks past.

  ‘Can’t you try once more?’ I beg Paul.

  He shakes his head.

  ‘Oh, please! Make him sprint round the courts, anything to burn up his energy.’

  ‘We can refund you for the other five lessons. If you go to the reception desk they’ll sort it out for you.’

  With a heavy heart I join George who is staring at the spicy Nik-Naks. He gives the machine another whack. ‘Come out, you bastard!’

  *

  I drive him home. ‘Why do you do it, George?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Behave so badly.’ I always make a point of being cross with George’s behaviour, not with George himself.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he replies simply. ‘My head’s busy all the time, Mum.’

  If I could make one single wish, it would be to reach inside George’s head, take out all the hundreds and thousands of thoughts buzzing in his mind, each vying for attention centre-stage, and put them into a logical sequence. I wish the ADHD would leave my son in peace.

  I wish it would leave us all in peace.

  *

  Sunday mid-morning and Clarky and I are about to go for a swim at a new centre in Shepherds Bush. It’s in a gleaming white building and they have two pools. One is smaller with water as warm as a bath and is well equipped for disabled children; the other is for general swimming. George’s school has just started lessons here. However, he has already been banned for two weeks. ‘All he wants to do is drown the other children,’ the teacher told me.

  I walk into the steamy swimming pool area, the tiled flooring hard beneath my feet. A lifeguard, wearing a yellow T-shirt and shorts, sits on a tall chair looking bored. I see Clarky watching George dive bomb into the turquoise pool at full-speed, almost colliding with a young girl in a Speedo swimming cap and goggles. The spotty youth stirs himself into action, climbing down from the chair and crouching at the side of the pool. ‘Watch where you’re going,’ he calls to George. ‘Who’s supervising you?’

  ‘I’m with him,’ Clarky says. The lifeguard nods. I walk down the shallow steps. ‘There’s Mum,’ shouts George. I feel his arm wrap itself around my leg. He clings on so tightly that I nearly sink underneath the water. Next I am marking his handstands out of ten.

  ‘Six, your legs weren’t straight,’ I tell him.

  ‘Oh, Mum.’ He plunges into the water again.

  ‘How about me?’ Clarky dives in.

  ‘Rubbish!’ George and I laugh together. George doggy paddles to the other side of the pool.

  ‘We haven’t spoken for ages,’ Clarky says to me. ‘Well, it feels like that, with Christmas being in the way, which incidentally was awful. “What have you got to show for your life?” was all Mum and Dad could ask. They might as well have said straight out what a huge disappointment I am to them because I’m only a music teacher.’

  I tell him briefly about our Christmas and Finn breaking the news about the baby without telling me. ‘He was also put out that I’d told you about the pregnancy before him. He asked me again and again if we’d ever …’ I stop.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Oh,’ I wave dismissively, ‘nothing.’

  ‘He asked you what?’

  ‘If there’d ever been anything between us.’

  ‘You’ve never told him about that night, have you?’

  I lean against the edge of the pool and circle my feet. ‘No.’

  ‘Why not? Doesn’t he deserve to know?’

  ‘Can’t some things be private? We were eighteen. It was between you and me. It was a long time ago. Let it be.’

  There’s an awkward silence. I start to shiver and say I’m going to swim a length to warm up but his arm pulls me back. ‘I wish we’d talked about it,’ he says quietly. ‘Why didn’t we?’

  ‘I don’t know. We were immature back then, I guess, a bit embarrassed, but there’s no point now.’ I attempt to swim again but his arm grips mine even more tightly. ‘I was in love with you.’

  ‘In love with me?’ Unnerved I pull my arm away from him. ‘Clarky! Don’t say that! I’m not talking about this. Besides, it’s disloyal to Finn.’

  ‘Disloyal? You weren’t even with him then.’

  ‘That’s not the point. It’s weird talking about it now.’

  ‘I was in love with you.’

  ‘Well, you had a very strange way of showing it. I seem to remember you did everything in your power to avoid me for the next three months. I started to think that it had been a complete figment of my imagination.’

  ‘You didn’t exactly come forward either. I woke up and you’d gone. I knew you’d thought it was a mistake, I didn’t want to hear you say you still loved Finn.’

  I shake my head, almost smiling. ‘I can’t believe we’re talking about this now, in a pool.’

  ‘Nor can I.’

  I look towards the seating area and see Aggie through the glass window, drinking a cup of coffee. She’s wearing a thick cream scarf with pom-pom edging. I didn’t know Eliot went swimming. I look around to see where George is. He’s about to jump into the water, fingers clamped over his nose. I wave to Aggie. ‘We should be able to laugh about it now. No big deal. It was one night, that’s all.’

  ‘Right. Who’s that?’

  ‘Aggie. She has a son in George’s class.’

  Eliot is pushed into the pool area, a team of professionals surrounding him. There’s a tall man wearing a pair of black swimming trunks and a white T-shirt. He must be the teacher. He has well-muscled arms, and a whistle on a piece of cord hangs around his neck. George waves at his friend and Eliot does the royal wave back before being pushed towards the much more luxurious heated pool.

  Clarky turns to me again. ‘I should have told you how I fel
t.’

  ‘Well, it’s a bit too late for us to “chat” now,’ I say. ‘Twelve years too late to be precise.’

  George swims over to us.

  ‘Let’s not talk about it again, OK? It’s unfair on Finn.’ Just mentioning it makes me feel guilty, as if I have betrayed him this very moment.

  ‘I won’t say another word.’

  ‘About what Daddog?’ George asks.

  Clarky swims off in a fast front crawl. George looks at me. ‘Nothing sweetheart. Boring stuff.’

  ‘Oh. There’s Eliot!’

  Different kinds of coloured floats are being attached to Eliot’s spindly body. The small pool is divided into two sections by a red and blue barrier. I introduce myself to the teacher, explaining that El and George are school friends. ‘Can my son watch for a minute?’ I ask.

  But already George has jumped into the other pool. ‘It’s like having a bath, Mum!’ he shouts. ‘It’s hot.’

  ‘George, out! I’m sorry.’

  ‘Frédéric,’ the man introduces himself in heavily accented English. ‘And this is my assistant.’ He signals to a young woman wearing a navy costume. ‘Your son can join in, I am very happy if Eliot is?’ They lift him carefully onto a white plastic chair.

  ‘Are you all right, Eliot?’ Frédéric asks. ‘Bien. Are you ready to go?’

  Eliot assumes his kingly position on the throne as he is propelled into the air and lifted over the water. The assistant turns a wheel and the chair is gradually lowered into the pool. George watches, fascinated. He jumps up and down in keen anticipation, waiting for Eliot’s toes to hit the water. Why can’t he sit on the chair? I know that’s what he’s thinking.

  George is splashing El already. I pull a worried face.

  ‘That’s good,’ Frédéric is saying, holding Eliot carefully in the water, ‘splash your friend back. C’est important … it is important being comfortable in the water. It is the first thing I teach children, not to have any fear.’

  George certainly has no fear. I remember even as a toddler he used to jump straight into the pool trustingly. More importantly, he floated afterwards. ‘Come on, kick those arms, Eliot, get your friend really wet,’ Frédéric encourages. Eliot has little strength in his arms but he is trying so hard, his face getting redder and redder, almost matching the colour of his hair.