You, Me and Him

by Alice Peterson

  George promptly forgets Imogen’s offering of a puzzle. ‘Wow!’ he says, planting a cowboy hat on his head. It falls off but he’s lost interest in it already. George needs presents that demand his attention, like model aeroplanes he can build.

  We start to sing ‘Happy Birthday’. Clare is playing the guitar and singing as loudly as she can; Clarky, Mum, Tiana, Mrs B and I are belting it out too. ‘I want my mum,’ Imogen says at the end of the song.

  I hear a car engine being turned off. I don’t wait until the doorbell rings. ‘Hello, sorry we’re late,’ Aggie calls from the window of her shiny white van. She opens the back door, presses a button and the ramp slots into place. Eliot glides effortlessly to the pavement in his wheelchair.

  ‘Hi, Eliot.’

  ‘I’m an outlaw,’ he says with delight. His hair is swept back and tucked behind his large pink ears. He’s wearing a muddy orange-coloured scarf and an old dusty jacket with silver studs down the arm. On his bottom half are combat trousers with rips across the knees and he carries a crossbow on his lap. He must be Robin Hood.

  ‘One of the tyres got a puncture. Eliot was furious,’ exclaims Aggie, shaking her head. ‘He’s been longing to come to this party, hasn’t stopped talking about it and who is going to be here.’

  Aggie takes one side of the chair; I am about to take the other when Clarky joins us. ‘Here, let me help.’

  Aggie looks up. ‘Oh, hello, again,’ she says. ‘We met at the pool, didn’t we?

  ‘Yes.’

  There seems to be an overly long pause.

  ‘Hurry up, will you?’ Eliot demands with a wave of his hand. ‘I haven’t got all day.’

  Tiana takes my side.

  ‘It’s Agatha, isn’t it?’ Clarky asks.

  ‘Yes, but everyone calls me Aggie. Justin, right?’

  ‘Yes, but everyone calls me Clarky.’ They both start to laugh.

  Tiana raises an eyebrow at me before she and Clarky summon all their strength to lift Eliot over the steps. I need to build a ramp. Eliot is fast becoming George’s only friend at school so I think I should do as much as I can to maintain this.

  George insists on taking over once his friend is inside. He pushes Eliot to the table, knocking over Imogen’s present, the puzzle’s box massacred under the wheels. Already he has forgotten that no one else has bothered to turn up. At least there is one advantage to having ADHD. He is unable to dwell for long on one particular thought, instead sailing on to the next obliviously. I wish I could do the same.

  ‘Mind out, Mrs B!’ George and the chair hurtle towards her and she jumps out of the way, clutching her bright pink plastic hair clip. Wisps of white hair fall loose around her face.

  The next hour is the most painful of all. Eliot and George start having a food fight, the chocolate castle pasted onto their cheeks and noses like face paints. Clarky suggests he plays Imogen a tune on the guitar and starts to strum ‘Bright Eyes’ from Watership Down. She starts to cry.

  ‘Try something more upbeat, can’t you?’ I insist.

  George now has a whole wing of the chocolate castle topped with a red marzipan flag in his hands and I can see he is about to smack it down slap bang on the middle of Eliot’s head. I gasp with horror and am about to break it up when Aggie pulls my arm back. ‘What are they going to do if they don’t throw food at each other?’ She shrugs her shoulders. ‘It’s only cake.’

  ‘It cost almost twenty quid,’ I tell her, rubbing my forehead, ‘and a parking ticket. Eliot is covered in it.’

  ‘Well, thank God for the washing machine.’ She laughs and then pops a sausage roll – well, just the pastry – in her mouth in one neat go. She doesn’t seem to notice that George and Eliot have eaten the juicy sausage part and cast aside the flaking pastry.

  ‘I want to be like you.’

  ‘Like me?’ She looks at me incredulously. ‘Why?’

  ‘You let things fly over your head.’

  ‘I think you try too hard sometimes. You watch George all the time, like you know something’s about to go wrong.’

  ‘But if I don’t watch, he’s about to take a flying jump out the window or …’

  ‘If George hurts himself, hasn’t he learnt a valuable lesson? Eliot says he has ADHD, although he doesn’t have a clue what that is. Sorry if this sounds silly, but aren’t all children hyper?’

  This question usually makes me want to kick people in the teeth. However, Aggie is a new friend so I practise self-restraint. ‘There are normal children who play up from time to time and then there’s George. I swear on my life it’s not a made-up condition. It’s a chemical imbalance in the brain that affects the parts controlling concentration, attention and impulsivity.’

  ‘So he acts without thinking, like running across a busy road?’

  ‘Exactly. George finds it impossible to filter all the messages his brain receives so he’s constantly being distracted.’

  ‘El says he takes a pill at lunchtime?’

  ‘Ritalin. It’s a central nervous system stimulant.’

  ‘Fuck, he’s on an amphetamine?’

  ‘Yes, and believe me, it’s the hardest thing giving your child a drug, but without it he’d never get anything done.’

  Aggie nods thoughtfully. ‘So how was he diagnosed?’

  ‘We were about to leave for school, but George had forgotten his PE bag. I told him to go and get it …’

  *

  ‘I can’t,’ he said. ‘There’s something up there.’

  ‘Upstairs, now.’

  ‘There are fumes.’

  I laughed nervously. ‘Don’t be silly.’

  ‘There are fumes coming from the radiator, they’ve burnt my Lego.’

  ‘George, I was in your room five minutes ago, it was fine.’

  ‘Can’t you smell the burning?’ His arms were violently shaking; his forehead covered with sweat. Scared, I picked up the phone to talk to Finn.

  ‘Tell the GP it’s an emergency. I’m on my way home, now.’

  George was shaking as if he had a terrible fever. ‘What’s wrong with him?’ I whispered down the phone.

  ‘I don’t know, but everything’s going to be fine.’

  ‘Sit with me, George.’ I wrapped us both in Baby. ‘Daddy’s coming.’

  ‘There are chemicals on my hands.’ He was hitting my arms. ‘Get them off me!’

  I rocked him, telling him everything was going to be fine while I had a sinking feeling that this was only the beginning.

  *

  ‘Shit. Then what happened?’ Aggie asks.

  ‘He was seen by a leading child psychologist and diagnosed with ADHD. There isn’t a formal test as such, diagnosis is widely based on behavioural and psychological questionnaires that parents fill in.’

  ‘Sod it. Must have been awful.’

  ‘Yes, but right from the start I knew something was wrong. “He is irritable baby,” his Indian health visitor used to say. She always wore red lipgloss which stuck to her two front teeth.’ Aggie laughs at this. ‘At playgroup he sat in the corner doing his own thing.’

  ‘Eliot says sharks only eat you if you annoy them,’ George calls out. ‘Is that true, Mum?’

  ‘They might eat you if they think you’re a turtle,’ Eliot adds.

  They go back to their food fight. ‘I feel bad. Here I am complaining about George when you have El.’

  ‘He has Muscular Dystrophy,’ she says. ‘His muscles don’t work properly. It’s a rare genetic disorder in which muscles degenerate to such a point that, well, they can’t function anymore. Eliot used to be able to walk, he used to be able to swim, but now …’ Her eyes are watering.

  I touch her arm. ‘I’m sorry. Life’s not fair sometimes, is it?’

  ‘Josie, shall we save our woeful tales for another day? We’re supposed to be at a birthday party.’ She picks up the rabbit puppet Clarky gave George who for some weird reason has called it Mr Muki.

  ‘Who gave this to him?’

  ‘
Clarky.’

  ‘Now, that’s much more interesting.’ Her eyes widen. ‘How do you know him?’

  ‘We grew up together.’

  ‘Talk about dishy too.’

  ‘Dishy?’

  ‘Fuck, yes.’ She slaps a hand over her mouth again, as if telling it off.

  I smile. ‘I’m not questioning whether or not Clarky is dishy, I’m questioning the word itself.’

  ‘He looks artistic, like a writer or a musician. You know, one of those attractive but elusive types?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘Did you ever go out?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Is he single?’

  ‘Yes, think so. There was some girl called Kelly on the scene but he didn’t seem that keen.’

  ‘Can you set me up with him? You see, I don’t get out that much,’ she confides, ‘what with, well, you know …’ She glances at Eliot. ‘So I need all the help I can get.’

  ‘Who are you talking about?’ Tiana joins us.

  ‘Clarky.’ Aggie nods eagerly. ‘I think he’s dishy.’

  ‘Why don’t you ask him out?’ Tiana suggests.

  ‘I’m not sure I can, can I?’

  Tiana grabs a handful of crisps. ‘Why not?’ we both say at the same time.

  ‘Clarky won’t bite! My new year’s resolution was to meet five new people this year,’ Tiana continues, crunching, ‘and already I’ve smashed that target.’

  Clarky puts the guitar down by the fireplace and walks towards us, but not before mouthing a ‘sorry’ in my direction and then throwing a mini-sausage at George who howls with laughter and throws one back at twice the speed.

  ‘There’s no chance Imogen was born sunny-side up,’ he says.

  Aggie coils her long auburn hair into a bun and lets it loose again. ‘What do you do, Clarky?’

  ‘I play the violin.’

  She looks at me in triumph. ‘Can you make a living out of that?’

  I laugh at her directness.

  ‘Er, that’s a good question. Well, I’m available for birthdays, christenings, ruby wedding anniversaries, weddings – you name it. Let’s face it, for money I’ll do anything.’

  *

  Everyone has left. Clarky helped Aggie carry Eliot down the steps and then she offered him a lift home. The funny thing is, I had expected him to stay.

  ‘’Bye. Happy Birthday, George,’ they all shouted out of the windows before the white van raced off into the distance.

  As Mum left, she tried to comfort me, telling me that today was a success because George, in his own way, had enjoyed it.

  Now he is lying on our bed with a wet Mr Muki laid out on a damp towel across one of the pillows, his pyjamas are on inside out and he still has chocolate crumbs in his hair. It doesn’t matter. I need to take a leaf out of Aggie’s book.

  I walk downstairs, ignore the washing up and make myself a cup of camomile tea. I wonder if Aggie will ask Clarky out? Would he go for someone like her? She is tall like me. His last official girlfriend was called Annabel. She was just over five foot and wore little pumps and neat pleated skirts. She looked like a sparrow hanging off his arm. ‘All she wants to do is settle down and bake scones,’ Clarky told me when they broke up two months later. Justin normally goes for quiet girls whereas Aggie’s the type to speak her mind. I like her, though, very much. Maybe someone like Aggie is exactly what he needs? Clarky’s great with George, too, so he wouldn’t have a problem with Eliot. I laugh at myself. Already I am playing Happy Families. Switch off. I shut my eyes and press an imaginary button on my head.

  *

  The front door opens. ‘Mum!’ I hear George screaming. ‘MUM!’

  Finn comes into the room and throws his briefcase down. ‘What’s that burning smell? Where’s George?’

  I run upstairs.

  ‘What’s that smell?’ Finn runs after me.

  ‘George, are you OK?’ I call.

  ‘Muki’s on fire!’ I fling open the bedroom door. The puppet is lying across the bedside table lamp, burning to death.

  ‘He was cold after his bath, I wanted to warm him up,’ George says, teeth chattering with fear.

  I grab him but he’s piping hot. ‘Shit!’ I shout, withdrawing my hand. Finn takes him instead and runs to the bathroom where he throws the rabbit into some cold water. I unplug the lamp immediately.

  ‘Is Mr Muki dead?’ George starts to cry. ‘It’s not my fault, Dad. I wanted to keep him warm.’

  ‘George, quiet,’ Finn says sharply.

  ‘Have I killed him?’ He’s sobbing now.

  Finn lays Mr Muki on the towel and starts to make the sound of an ambulance siren. ‘What the hell are you doing?’ I ask him.

  ‘Mr Muki has been brought into Accident and Emergency. He needs open-heart surgery. Stand back.’

  ‘Is he going to be all right, Dad?’

  ‘Shh. I need absolute silence. Keep back.’ Finn listens to Mr Muki’s heartbeat and does pretend cardiac arrest treatment. After a couple of minutes: ‘That was a narrow escape,’ he informs us seriously.

  ‘Is he alive, Dad?’

  ‘He’s pulled through …’

  ‘He’s alive!’

  ‘… but if that’s ever done again, Mr Muki won’t make it next time. Do you understand, George? You cannot put anything on lights. ..’

  He nods.

  ‘Do you understand?’ Finn repeats firmly.

  ‘I understand. Thank you, Dad.’ George hugs him tightly.

  ‘Go to bed, OK. I’ll come and say good night in a minute.’ George jumps up and cradles Mr Muki in his arms. The rabbit’s fur is burnt and his eyes charred as black as coal.

  What was Aggie talking about? I only have to turn my back for a second and the house will burn down. I’m crying now. My back hurts; my hand hurts. I’m so tired.

  ‘Hey.’ Finn kneels down by the bed.

  ‘It’s my fault.’

  ‘Let me take a look at that hand.’ He walks into the bathroom and returns with a cold flannel. He presses it against my lobster-coloured skin, the coldness stinging against the heat.

  ‘Will I live, Doctor?’

  ‘It’s touch and go.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have fallen asleep but children’s parties are exhausting.’

  ‘Even if no one turns up?’ We both laugh helplessly.

  I shift over so he can lie down with me and we’re quiet for a couple of minutes until Finn says, ‘We’ve got the twenty-week scan tomorrow, haven’t we?’

  ‘Mmm,’ I murmur. ‘You’ll be there, won’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What would have happened if you hadn’t come back?’

  ‘Don’t think about it. It’s OK now, that’s all that counts.’

  We haven’t hugged for a long time. I try to imagine not having Finn in my life. I hold on even tighter.

  ‘Although,’ he starts again, ‘that damn rabbit could have burnt our house down. Imagine having to tell the insurance people. Who gave him that scary puppet anyway?’

  ‘Clarky.’

  ‘Clarky,’ he repeats slowly. ‘I should have guessed.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  I was staring at my computer screen waiting for my boss to deign to come into the office. He was the laziest genius I knew.

  After Cambridge and travelling with Clarky, I had gained my degree in typography and was now a PA, working for a leading London designer, David Hamilton. His offices were along Westbourne Grove, the seedier side near Bayswater. David was a wildly contradictory character: temperamental, brilliant, flamboyant, frustrating, creative and infuriating. I hadn’t realised quite how successful and well known he was in the industry until I started working for him. He was heralded as one of the most important designers of the 1980s. For my interview I had dressed in a long polka dot skirt that Mum had insisted was the thing to wear. I felt I would have stood more of a chance of getting a trendy
media job if I’d been wearing suspenders and a black leather jacket.

  ‘Alice in Wonderland was my favourite book as a child.’ David winked at me when he told me I’d got the job. There was a frisson of chemistry between us. I abandoned the skirt after that.

  He loved to stroll into the office around mid-day, wearing dark jeans, black cowboy boots and a white shirt that showed off a few stray dark hairs on his chest. Sometimes a tall long-legged model would strut behind him, mascara smudged around her eyes, looking like she had just crawled out of his bed. He was constantly hungover and clutching a Styrofoam cup of strong coffee in one hand, a bacon sandwich in the other. ‘What have you got in your in-tray, Josie?’ he’d ask, perching on the corner of my desk and flicking the plastic lid off his take-out coffee.

  ‘Josie, wake him up and get his arse into the office, OK?’ was a typical morning call from a client.

  ‘I’ll try him again,’ I’d say, feeling more like the nagging wife as I picked up the phone.

  ‘People who start the day early are very boring, Josie,’ was David’s justification.

  ‘That sounds more like an excuse to stay in bed.’

  ‘Do you really want to work for a boring person?’ I knew he was smiling then.

  ‘No. I wouldn’t mind a social life, though.’

  *

  Still no sign of my boss. I picked up the phone. How long could he get away with this? I punched in a number. ‘Are we still meeting tonight?’ I asked Alex. He’d been my boyfriend since my final year at Reading: ambitious, clean-living (he liked to ‘detox’ once a month), and being positively nice was a hobby with him.

  ‘I’ve got a mountain of work to get through.’ He worked for a bank in London. ‘What time’s the concert?’

  ‘Seven-thirty. If it’s difficult we can meet afterwards.’

  ‘I’ll try my very hardest, pumpkin.’

  I put the phone down and started tapping my desk with a rubber-ended pencil. It was time for a caffeine fix. I walked outside, into the hustle and bustle of London traffic and people. I needed a new job, one where I was doing the designing; I wanted to use my degree. I had loved my job to begin with but now I was ready for more responsibility. I crossed the zebra crossing and a tall man walked past me, striding in the opposite direction. I turned round. There was something about his face, the way he walked, that click of the heel against the pavement. It couldn’t have been, could it? I stood motionless in the middle of the road until a car beeped at me and I was forced to move on.