by Adele Parks
The firework display is about to start, so people amble towards the cordoned-off area. There’s quite a crowd gathered. Connie is scanning it, probably looking for her family, but she doesn’t leave me. There’s a small brass band, which is predictably amateurish but the crowd cheer encouragingly. The English are good at encouraging mediocrity. Then there’s a moment’s hush when the fairground music, screaming tots, loud teens and shoddy tinny music seem to cease as we wait for the first firework.
Whoosh. The children scatter and then recollect themselves; there’s the sound of applause and embarrassed half-hearted oohs and ahs as the sky is momentarily illuminated by rockets and fountains that billow and vanish and flashgun flares that zoom and pop. It’s magical.
‘Was Diane a good shag?’
She knows it’s beneath her dignity to ask but she can’t help herself. I love her weakness and vulnerability. Her hair has curled in the rain and she looks a lot like she has looked before. When before? I try to remember and slowly it dawns on me. Oh God, the first time. In the park, wherever the hell that was. I’m having flashbacks to the first time we had sex. That’s serious.
‘No,’I assure her. We both watch the fireworks, comfortably at one another’s side.
I remember that time in the park. She rolled off me and said it was a great fuck. She set the tone. She told me she didn’t want to fall in love and all I did was follow her lead. Yeah, it was convenient for me. I probably didn’t want to be tied down but if she hadn’t said that… If she hadn’t called it a fuck. Maybe things might have been different, mightn’t they? Because there is a moment where we choose. There always is. And she chose to stomp out our possibility. She might have wanted more from me later on, but it was too late. That first moment, as she rolled off, was the pivotal one.
The fireworks crash and zoom around us. The black sky is alive with blue, pink, white and red showers. The colours zap and are then followed by smoke trails that languidly float into nothingness. The crowds become more confident in their encouragement and enthusiastically yell out their delight.
‘We never talk about it,’she says. She makes the comment and then lets it float with the smoke into the blackness. I can’t be certain but I get the sense that she was thinking about our first time too. I feign ignorance.
‘What do you mean?’
‘We never talk about us. About what I did. What we did. How cruel and terrible I was. Or how exciting it was. Or even how sad it was.’I shrug. What can I say? ‘I don’t know how you felt about it. You don’t know how you felt about it. Don’t you think that’s a bit odd?’
She calls us ‘it’because it’s easier if things are impersonalized. She doesn’t need to tell me that.
‘We were together for hours the other week and we talked about Big Brother, tiles in your bathroom, the best place to eat jellied eels and I hate jellied eels but we did not talk about Andrea, or Luke, or you or me.’
Or love.
Of course we didn’t. I might have done if we’d got into the sack. I might have managed to answer some of her questions then, fill in the odd gap. I have been giving it some thought and I have questions of my own.
For example, could we have fallen in love? Might I have married her and not Andrea? Yeah, all right, it wouldn’t have been straightforward. What is? She’d have had to have left St Luke and all, but that was a possibility, wasn’t it? At one point, I’m sure it was. Could there have been a world where we’d have stood together, with a couple of sprogs of our own, and watched fireworks? Would I have liked that world?
Is she thinking what I’m thinking?
They keep the best till last, a bouquet of colourful rockets, fountains and spinning wheels that make the night look starry when in fact the clouds and rain dominate. I roar with the rest of the crowd. I like my thrills cheap and I don’t mind illusions. Applause patters across the field.
‘I think we need to talk,’she says. She sounds breathless. Nervous. She stares at me. Her mouth is inviting.
I lean closer. A little closer. A fraction nearer still. Our lips are an inch away. I wait. She’ll have to come to me. She’ll have to choose when because if I get it wrong she’ll never forgive me. This is a one-shot game.
‘Well, well, well. You two look very cosy. I hope I’m not interrupting anything.’
Connie and I jump apart and land with a crash face to face with Diane. I don’t hesitate. In a seamless swerve I turn, I lean forward and kiss Diane on the cheek. The move is so swift that everyone could choose to believe that was always the direction I was heading. If they need to believe that.
‘You’re not interrupting anything at all,’says Connie. ‘He’s all yours.’
She turns and stalks off, instantly dissolving back into the crowds.
The fireworks are over. Fuck it. I turn to Diane.
‘Are you having fun?’
‘Not really. Muddy fields aren’t my thing but who knows? The night is young,’she says with a smile. She really needs to see a decent dentist.
33
Saturday 4 November
Rose
The fireworks were splendid. There was nothing amateur about the show at all. Craig and the headteachers from the other schools must be really pleased with themselves. The vast majority of the crowds are now contentedly shuffling towards the gate. Some teenagers are heading back towards the funfair stalls.
I did an early shift on the toffee-apple stall and so am now free to enjoy the festivities with the twins, Daisy and Simon and Connie, Luke and the girls. Connie and Luke have also brought along Auriol and she’s a welcome addition. I’d rather she join us than I bump into Lucy and Peter. Although it’s unlikely they’d bring Auriol here, a family bonfire is not Lucy or Peter’s idea of a good way to spend a Saturday night. More fool them. I buy candyfloss for all the kids and present them with a flourish.
‘What about sugar content?’asks Daisy.
She’s having a gentle pop because normally I’m pretty fascist when it comes to the children’s eating habits. Daisy finds this particularly amusing, as we were brought up on a diet of pick-and-mix penny sweets and she reasons it never did us any harm – besides the cavities and my lifelong membership of Weight Watchers, that is.
I grin at her. ‘It’s firework night – even I accept that treats are in order.’
‘You seem in really good spirits.’
‘I am.’
‘Dating is really working out for you, isn’t it?’she says as she links my arm. She’s joyful.
In fact, it’s not, but why burst her bubble? The reason I’m so happy tonight is that I’m surrounded by my family and friends and I’m doing a traditional family and friends activity. Just like a normal, non-divorced mother. Dating is more or less something I’m doing so that my friends and family don’t despair of me.
I avoid answering her question. ‘There’s Mr Walker, the headmaster. I think I’ll go and congratulate him on such a successful evening. Don’t lose me.’
‘OK, we’ll be around the bonfire. I think Luke and Simon want to try the toasted marshmallows.’
Craig beams at me as he sees me approach.
‘Hello, Rose. Are you having a good evening?’
‘Very much so.’
‘Here with your family?’
‘Yes and some friends, everyone’s having a super night.’
‘Wonderful.’Craig’s beam is so wide, it’s almost painful. I fear his skin might tear. It’s rather special to come across someone who gets so much from creating pleasure for others. I can’t help but beam back at him.
‘How are the takings?’
‘We’ve done splendidly, Rose. In fact, all but sold out. I was thinking of shutting up shop and finding my friends.’
‘Yes, you should take the rest of the night off. Have some fun,’I enthuse. ‘You could come and meet my sister, if you like.’
The offer is out before I think what I’m doing. Unintentionally I’ve put Craig in an awkward position. He probably wanted
to catch up with his own pals. Now his good manners will dictate that he has to spend time with me. I blush. Craig is unperturbed, in fact he is so polite he manages to appear delighted and agrees at once.
He leaves the toffee-apple store in the charge of Wendy Pickering, a dubious decision in my opinion, but Craig doesn’t seem unduly worried and we set off together to find my gang.
‘The sports masters are not going to be happy with this churned field,’I comment as we make our way across the mud.
‘Mr Shaw is rarely cross,’comments Craig.
‘True, he’s lovely,’I comment.
Craig shoots me an inquisitive glance. I realize he’s probably aware of Mr Shaw’s heart-throb status and I don’t want to leave the wrong impression. Mr Walker probably has my name down as some sort of nympho after my inappropriate confessions regarding internet dating. I have to clarify that I don’t fancy Mr Shaw, even at the risk of sounding a little overly familiar again.
‘It’s such a shame he’s blond, I prefer dark-haired men,’I add, and then I stare at Craig’s thick black hair. I start to blush, what in the world am I thinking of? I’m flirting with the headmaster. Has Daisy been spiking my hot chocolate?
It’s peculiar that on a conscious level I know all the reasons Craig is unsuitable as an object of my, shall we say, affection or interest? But if ever I were to have feelings for a man then it would be a man like Mr Walker. No, in truth it would be Craig. I know that he’s the boys’headmaster and it would be terrible to have a relationship with him for about a gazillion reasons (as Henry would say). If it didn’t work out I’d have to drag the boys out of Holland House and start them at another school. The boys would be devastated to leave Holland House and if it went well the consequences would be just as upsetting for them. They are mortified if a teacher nods to us in Tesco’s; they’d be spun straight into therapy if they ever had to deal with seeing Craig eating cornflakes at our breakfast bar. Besides, he’s younger than me. And it’s not as though he’s even hinted that he has any interest in me at all beyond the purely platonic. He wants me to help him find someone on the internet, he sees me as a facilitating cupid. Once he registers I bet he’ll be beating off women with a stick; he’s attractive, very interesting, moral, decent, kind. I enjoy chatting with Craig.
Oh, OK, I admit it; I fancy the pants off him.
On and off, for the past sixteen nights, I’ve had erotic dreams about Craig. Me! Erotic dreams! I was so sure that my libido had shrivelled up and turned to dust. Apparently it’s just been hibernating. Since I’ve discovered that he’s single I’ve started to think of him as something other than a headmaster. Something quite other. Last Saturday I dreamt that we were picnicking on alpine mountains (innocent enough). One moment I was admiring the view, the next I was butt naked and he was eating strawberries off my body. I had to wake myself up. It is so inappropriate to have thoughts like that, even unconscious ones. The thing that disturbed me the most was that I was still a size sixteen, even in my dream, and neither Craig nor I seemed to mind.
On Tuesday I dreamt that we were both in a classroom, discussing the boys’school work (with particular emphasis on the space topic that Sebastian is so excited about right now). One moment we are sitting on those silly classroom chairs that are designed for diddy men and the next we are rolling around on the story carpet, butt naked. In reality, sitting on those chairs is one of the most fearful moments of my life and the main reason I dread parents’meetings. For a start, as I ease into the chair, I always fear I’ll break it. Then, once I am in it, there is no way to get out. Even Houdini would struggle. When I stand up the chair is always clasped to my bottom and I have to back out of the classroom. But in my dream there was no sign of that potential embarrassment and humiliation. I felt comfortable.
On Wednesday I dreamt we were climbing trees, butt naked. On Thursday I dreamt we were swimming in a lagoon, butt naked. Do you see a theme? Last night I wasn’t bothering to wake myself up. I reasoned that yes, the dreams are inappropriate but what harm? No one knows what I’m thinking – I keep my silly fantasies to myself. I might as well enjoy them and they are so very, very enjoyable.
I look at Craig. The fine mist of drizzle has settled all over his coat, glasses and hair. But instead of looking gloomy and damp he looks iridescent. He’s staring at me with mild amusement and a slightly quizzical grin. I don’t believe he is laughing at me – he’s not the sort to do that. I always feel very secure and snug in Craig’s company, as my butt-naked dreams testify. I lock those thoughts away in a big treasure chest and then mentally bury them under fifty foot of sand. I search for something neutral to say.
‘Wasn’t it glorious weather yesterday? Who would have thought it would turn out so cold today? I love bright autumnal days like yesterday, don’t you?’
‘It’s my favourite kind of weather,’agrees Craig.
‘I mowed the lawn. I hope that tides me over for the winter now. Although it’s a job I rather enjoy, especially when it’s bright.’
‘There’s nothing like the smell of fresh air combined with newly cut grass, is there?’he says.
‘Absolutely delicious. Makes me feel young. Foolish thought, although not an illusion I rush to push away.’Craig smiles, but he can’t fully understand; after all, he is young. ‘Make believe, now and again, is a marvellous thing. Isn’t it?’I add. I grin to myself. If only he knew.
I spot my family and quicken my pace, as I’m always in a hurry to be with them. However, while I’m delighted to see them, they are not all similarly pleased to see Craig and me. The boys are mortified that I’ve brought the headmaster over to socialize and glare at me for a minute or two. Luckily, Auriol and Fran are too young to be intimidated and after a short time they encourage the boys to concentrate on twirling sparklers. Connie also seems somewhat abashed by Craig joining us. I put this down to new-mum-at-school syndrome. She’ll be desperate to give the right impression (interested, proactive parent but not too pushy). She stays very quiet and holds Luke’s hand throughout. Daisy doesn’t see anything other than a fellow professional and someone to talk curriculums with, and so manages to desist from asking Craig if he has any designs on me. We write our names with sparklers, visit the hall of mirrors and have a go at knocking the coconuts off their perches. All too quickly time speeds by; Connie and Luke say they have to get the girls home and Daisy offers to take the boys home for me and put them to bed so I can stay behind and help with the clear-up. Craig and I find ourselves paired off, dismantling the toffee-apple carts so that they can go into the van conveniently. It’s notable that most of the other committee members have scuttled home, skiving off the heavy work.
‘I’d have put money on the fact that it would be you and me left with the clean-up,’comments Craig. He’s smiling as he says it and doesn’t seem to mind too much, although his nose is red with cold and he isn’t wearing gloves so his fingers must be raw with the bitter temperatures.
‘At least we know that the equipment will be returned to the hire company clean and in good condition. We’ll be entitled to a return of our deposit,’I say.
‘You’re very conscientious, aren’t you, Rose?’
‘Yes, always have been. We’re made the way we’re made, don’t you think?’
‘I’m not sure. That sounds quite fatalistic. I believe in choice. Don’t you think we make our own choices?’
‘Yes, but usually in ignorance,’I laugh. ‘The thing is I’m a swot, can’t help myself. I’m programmed that way. I always impressed the teachers at school.’
‘I bet you did.’
‘To avoid alienating my classmates I would sometimes throw the odd question, and while I desisted from sleeping with boys to curry favour, I was prepared to let them copy my homework.’
‘Very sensible,’laughs Craig. ‘I was just the same. Well, not that I considered sleeping with boys to curry favour.’He blushes as he makes the joke. ‘I just hung out with the cool guys and did their homework for them. I was first-gen
eration university.’
‘Me too, a dubious honour. Parents so proud –’
‘Lecturers so unimpressed.’
We laugh at the shared experience. I don’t know if it’s because there is smoke in the air (that is somehow intoxicating) or whether it is the belief, real or imagined, that Craig understands me which prompts me to add, ‘Sometimes I wish I could rewrite my youth.’Craig looks alarmed. I rush to reassure him. ‘Not major decisions. I’d still marry Peter and have the twins but I’d do some things a little differently.’
‘Like what?’
‘I’d have been cooler, less eager to please. There are at least half a dozen major occasions when I’d have worn something different, including my wedding day. I’d have worked a bit harder at learning to swim.’
Craig empathizes. ‘I’d have faked an interest in football at school. That would have saved me a lot of hardship.’
‘I’d have told Phil Hawood I loved him.’
‘Who’s Phil Hawood?’
‘My childhood sweetheart. He was a rare soul, someone who knew what he wanted from a very early age. He wanted to settle down, have a family, be happy. I wasn’t a very decent girlfriend to him. I was too immature to deal with his foresight.’
‘What happened to him?’
‘He settled down with someone else, had a family and is happy,’I say with an accepting shrug.
‘Oh.’
‘Well, there are certain men who are the falling in love type and the woman they fall in love with is largely irrelevant.’
Craig chuckles. ‘I wish I was one of those types.’
‘Still, Phil Hawood was my hope throughout my divorce. Not that I thought I’d meet him and tear him away from his wife and family or anything crazy like that, you understand – I know when a ship has sailed. It was just that knowing that once upon a time someone loved me very much, well, it was comforting. It seemed reasonable to believe that one day someone would love me in that way again.’
