by Meg Mason
Thank God, Phil thought each night, as she began her solitary lavations. Thank God Frederick isn’t here to see this. Although he was just the sort of man everyone looked to in times like these. ‘I wish you hadn’t buggered off,’ she said as her tears mingled with a thick coating of Advanced Night Repair for tired skin. ‘I bloody wish you hadn’t, Fred.’
53.
Lessons in Saltwater
When Mark delivered the boxes of Brigitta’s things from Kentish Town to the spare room at Ladbroke Grove, her laptop was not inside. There hadn’t been much time, he explained, what with the horde of tabloid muckers gunning for him downstairs. But Brigitta knew her computer had been weeded out by her sister, before the boxes made it upstairs. Mysteriously, the daily papers had stopped arriving at the house shortly after she moved in. Evidently it had been decided she was to be kept away from every source of news.
The atmosphere remained tense. Polly was in permanent command mode, rarely speaking to her sister except to issue domestic orders before work, and afterwards to see if she had yet managed to call their mother.
Brigitta had not. Because late each night when she was sure the house was sleeping, she snuck downstairs, opened her sister’s laptop and typed her name into Google. The first time she’d done it, her cheeks began to burn and her mouth ran with saliva, forcing her to swallow again and again as the search results came up. It was a habit ecstatic in its agony, a simultaneous relief of pressure and a painful punishment. Almost, she thought, like self-harm.
As the days wore on, the coverage had broadened beyond hysterical reportage, to think pieces analysing the mindset of the other woman and the pathology of cheaters. After Brigitta read each one, she returned to the original photos that still ranked in the Daily Mail’s Most Shared! section.
That she looked quite slender in the running series was cold comfort. In the others, especially the money-throwing ones where Guy’s little son could be seen in the background covering his ears, she was unmistakably the mad woman. The blurry restaurant pictures she lingered over the longest, always trying to reconcile the pleasant intimacy of that meeting with how it looked in grainy pap shots. Louche, her mother’s word. Tacky as fuck, Polly would say. She finished, always, by reading Guy’s statement to the press, looking for a coded message within its lines and phrases: ‘I deeply regret the pain I have caused . . . my wife’s forgiveness . . . privacy as our family heals.’ It was never there.
Very late one Sunday night, a fortnight after the story first ran, Brigitta typed in her name and a raft of new images appeared as the first result. The photographs were not of her, but it didn’t matter. Her name was now inextricably linked to ‘Director Guy Kidd and his wife, the stunning radio presenter Sylvie Allen Kidd.’ She scrolled down.
Spotted at Gatwick. The once beleaguered theatre personality and his wife, who is five months pregnant, will spend a brief vacation in Umbria before Kidd returns to helm the debut production of Lessons in Saltwater, by last year’s Olivier winner.
Guy was carrying his son and clutching Sylvie’s hand as he led her through the terminal. Brigitta studied each frame, noting the monogram on Sylvie’s rolling case, the plastic figurine clutched in the son’s hand identical to one Toby had, and Guy’s pale grey V-neck, which Brigitta had often worn in bed.
Afterwards, as every night, she slipped back up to the spare room feeling hollowed out, grubby, and unable by then to pick up the phone and speak to her mother.
54.
Pantry staples
‘Well this is very nice,’ Elaine said with tangible disappointment. She cut another small square of foolproof lasagne and swallowed it gannet-like. Although she did not know it, the cutlery came courtesy of Sandy, part of a plastic-handled set that hung on a stand and had got her through her flatting days.
‘It’s very nice, very nice,’ Roger said. Between each mouthful he looked over his shoulder to Jude, who was gumming on a set of plastic measuring spoons. He was surrounded on all sides by Phil’s hand-me-down cushions, sitting now but liable to keel over without warning. Abi had arranged the Sunday lunch to celebrate the end of Stu’s exams, and the solid run of Bs he had received.
‘It relies heavily on pantry staples,’ Abi said. ‘You know, things you’d already have in the –’
‘Thank you, yes, I know what a pantry staple is,’ Elaine replied with an astringent smile. ‘So, to what do we owe this pleasure, Abi?’
All three looked at her, expectantly.
‘Oh well, apart from celebrating and whatnot, I wanted to ask you, Elaine, how you would feel about minding Jude a few days a week, because I’m going to do some study these holidays at Sydney University. The course is called “The Fictive Self”.’
It was the first Stu had heard of it and Abi saw him open his mouth to raise the issue of fees. ‘Fortunately, it’s free. Your first one,’ she said, picking a cuticle. ‘Yes. The first one’s free.’
Stu seemed satisfied and carved his lasagne into large squares.
‘Now, what is that, Abi, the fictive self?’ Roger asked. ‘Is that a mental problem you see in social work?’
‘Oh no, sorry. It’s English. I’ve decided that what I really want to do, ultimately, is English. If I can swing it, I might even try and keep going after this one.’
Elaine could barely contain her pleasure at the prospect of having sole charge of the baby. She dabbed her lips with an olive-printed napkin Phil had purchased from an open-air market in Positano in the late nineties. ‘I did offer some months back. So yes. That could work.’
‘I’ve actually got my introductory half-day tomorrow so Stu, you can have him, since you’re on holidays now.’
‘In either case, what about the business of feeding?’ Elaine asked pointedly.
‘Well, he obviously eats food now. But I’ve also got more milk frozen than you’d believe. So you won’t need to supply your own.’
Elaine sucked in her cheeks, as behind her, Jude grabbed his ankles and listed to one side, remaining in a perfect sitting position until he was horizontal.
Roger chuckled. ‘Timber!’
* * *
‘That was good, babe. Well done,’ Stu said later, as he and Abi stood side by side at the sink, washing and drying the melamine lunch plates that had come in a ruffled picnic basket, which Barb and Sandy had found too heavy for regular use, once all its speciality inserts were actually filled. Elaine and Roger had decided to take a turn around the Point and let the highway clear before driving back up to Gordon.
‘Thanks,’ Abi said. It had felt like a form of torture, asking Elaine to take the baby, but it had to be done.
Time and again, Phil had stressed how vital it was to get her onside. ‘And I’m afraid dangling the babe is the quickest way about it,’ she’d said, closing the subject.
Stu continued, ‘And I’m happy to help out a bit as well, but I think it’s still probably the best thing for me to stay where I am.’
‘But you’re on holidays. Your work’s nearer to here.’
‘It’s just not worth rocking the boat, don’t you reckon?’
‘Yip, fine,’ Abi said. Her hands were hidden by the thick detergent bubbles and unseen, she clenched the scourer and scrubbed too hard at an Arcoroc lasagne dish that Barb received as a wedding present in 1982. ‘Sure. That’s fine. As long as you definitely come back on weekends, because you said you would.’
‘Mum looked psyched about getting Jude. And I’m definitely good for tomorrow. You must be excited to get back to it. And not even social work.’ Stu looked at her with sudden fondness.
Because he was so often forgetful, whenever Stu did recall a detail about her life, something she had said or done, Abi felt grateful out of all proportion. She pulled out the plug and wiped her hands on the front of her jeans. ‘We can leave all this to dry on its own.’ Turning, she boosted herself up onto the kitchen bench. ‘Fancy a quick shag?’
Stu dropped a set of Sandy’s tongs, which clattered to the floor. �
��What?’
‘We’ll have to hurry in case your parents get back.’
‘What? Okay. Yes. Yes I do. But Jude’s asleep in the bedroom.’
‘It’ll have to be here then,’ Abi said.
‘Oh man,’ was all Stu managed to say, again and again. ‘Oh man. Abi. Babe.’
And Phil was right, it was awful until they got going. Although, still, Abi refused to think of England.
55.
The tectonics of structural systems
Stu was woken by Elaine rapping on his bedroom door, eight minutes before he was due at Cremorne Point. He clambered out of bed, covering himself with the nautically themed doona of his childhood as she stepped in and stood at the end of his bed, silently transmitting her displeasure at the day’s arrangements.
Over an early tea of crumbed cutlets and three-bean mix the night before, Elaine had been more vocal about it. ‘You’ve barely ever had Jude on your own Stuart, even for a morning. The task is more onerous than Abi has probably led you to believe, since she likes to look very self-sufficient.’
Apparently it was the impromptu nature of the set-up that Elaine claimed to find most demanding – and surely Abi ought to be working towards something more vocational, instead of indulging in story-writing or whatever it was. ‘Although I suppose it’s all right if it’s free,’ she said in the end, trimming the fat off her cutlet.
* * *
Stu fidgeted unhappily in his seat for the duration of the train ride from Gordon, chewing morosely on the muesli bar Elaine had plied him with at the front door. According to his phone, he was going to be forty minutes late at least. With that realisation came the familiar guilt of letting Abi down. Another cock-up.
Abi rarely complained but somehow that made him feel worse, not better. Lately he’d started to wish that, just once, she’d actually let him have it. Refuse to accept his sporadic provision of twenties, tens and tip money, demand he pull his weight with the baby and move the fuck back down to Cremorne. When Stu slunk back to his parents’ house that first weekend, he’d expected Abi to beg him to come back straight away. The weekend turned into a week, and then another and another, until the temporary became the permanent, and in the pit of his stomach, Stu knew it was wounded pride that kept him from returning. Because you are a fucking dickhead, he thought, as the train finally stopped at North Sydney and he pushed his way through commuters to make a connecting bus.
But it was so hard to tell what she was thinking! Did she even still love him? She said she did and Stu felt that their recent shag was the best evidence in that direction. It just didn’t feel like she needed him especially. The flat was always neat, Jude always as happy as anything. Abi said he’d started to act up a lot more, getting to sleep or if she tried to put him down to go and do something, but Stu had never personally witnessed it. Abi was all over it. She did look pretty tired a lot of the time though, Stu had started to notice, and she and Jude looked like they could do with some stuff. All his little legging things stopped halfway up his calves, and Abi’s favourite jumper had a spider-web of loose stitching under one arm.
A proper boyfriend would send her off to the hairdressers, let her sleep all Sunday or hand over a loaded Westfield voucher and be like, ‘All yours babe.’ The knowledge that he couldn’t take care of everything stopped him from trying at all. It was so embarrassing.
Stu jogged all the way from the junction to Milson Road and took the stairs in twos to rally his energies. The door was ajar and he could see Abi standing in the middle of the room, Jude on her hip, rucksack on her back, just waiting. She was wearing the jumper with faded jeans and Jude had on a pair of denim overalls that Elaine had found in the camphor chest that held her special collection of Stu’s baby clothes. ‘One thing that reminds me of you at every age.’ Ideally, a father wouldn’t have to dress his baby in his own hand-me-downs, Stu thought as he entered with a display of forced gusto. ‘Sorry, sorry, sorry babe!’
Abi looked at him blankly. ‘I thought you said you’d be here at eight-thirty.’
‘I know, I know babe. You must be so mad. Mum was meant to wake me up and she must have forgotten. Not like her. You look nice. Anyway, you can head now.’
‘But I’ve got things I need to tell you. His routine.’
‘I’ll figure it out. How hard can it be! Hey mate,’ he said, lifting Jude out of her arms.
‘There’s two containers in the fridge . . .’
Stu placed a hand on her shoulder and steered her towards the door, ignoring the torrent of instructions, about dummies and milk and other obvious stuff. ‘Yep, yep, yep, no sweat. I’ve brought a stack of uni reading to do anyway, so we’ll probably just hang here.’
‘You’re not going to be able to do any uni . . .’
Stu gave her a gentle shove into the hallway and missed the last bit of what she said.
Jude seemed fairly happy sitting on the carpet, so Stu pulled out his textbook.
‘All right, you all set, Jude?’ He lay on the pull-out, tapping a pen against his teeth as he started reading.
Jude grizzled.
‘Shh, there’s a boy.’ Stu tossed a squeezy toy towards him. It landed beyond Jude’s range and he cried for it. ‘Mate, come on.’
Stu read two lines of introduction and glanced up at the precise moment Jude reached for the toy and, overbalancing, fell forward. The audible crack of his head hitting the leg of a chair was followed by a second of menacing silence, an almighty shriek, then high continual crying as he lay stranded face down on the carpet. Stu picked him up and brushed away fluff that had adhered to the dribble running out of his mouth.
‘It’s all right mate. Sssh. You’ll be all right.’ A welt rose on Jude’s forehead and Stu hoped rubbing it gently with his thumb would encourage it to go back down.
* * *
Abi hovered in the driveway, turning back to the flats, then to the road. She had not been away from Jude since the miserable date night. This morning was only the hour-long introductory session, but with the bus there and back she could be gone for three hours or more. She could not let herself think ahead to his days with Elaine, hostage in the back of a two-door Daihatsu. When she heard a bus approaching from the ferry terminal, she forced herself on, despite the certain sense that Jude would grow up to resent her for being such an absent mother.
* * *
‘You’re all right.’ Stu sat the baby on his lap and held the textbook like a bedtime story. Jude had not settled down and writhed unhappily in Stu’s lap, tugging his own ears.
In a soothing, singsong voice, Stu said, ‘The tectonics of structural systems . . .’
For a moment, Jude was quiet. Stu kept reading and when he got to a part about interpreting vernacular technologies, Jude reached out for a page and tore off a corner as he pulled it towards his mouth.
‘Jude. No,’ Stu said. He yanked Jude’s arm away. ‘This is a library book.’ Feeling suddenly ridiculous as Jude began wailing again, Stu got up and carried him to the kitchen. ‘What about a drink? That always helps your dad. Shh. Okay. Milk.’ He glanced around the kitchen. ‘How about we give Mum a ring?’ He looked at his phone. It had been six minutes since Abi left.
In the fridge, he found three bottles lined up on the top shelf. He threw one in the microwave, bunging it on for five minutes. Abi didn’t pick up and after two rings, Stu stuffed the phone back in his pocket, realising if she did answer he’d seem like an idiot.
He sat Jude on the kitchen bench, shuffling him back a bit towards the corner, and pawed through his hair a few times. Shit, he thought, right.
Jude tried to grab the tap, and Stu nudged him back further towards the windows to stop him tumbling head-first into the sink.
The microwave dinged. Stu reached in to retrieve the bottle, pegging it across the kitchen when it turned out the plastic was now molten.
‘Five minutes might have been a touch long, Jude. We might not use that one.’ The bottle lay on its side on the lino, boiled milk leak
ing out of the melted teat. Stu kicked it behind the bin. ‘Right’ he said, as Jude got hold of the plastic cutlery tree and sent it to the floor.
‘Maybe we’ll have milk later. Let’s try Mum again just in case.’ Stu held on this time, but it went through to voicemail. ‘Or let’s try Granny Elaine. See if she wants to come over.’
Elaine did not pick up, and neither did Roger. Somewhere around the twelve-minute mark, when Stu was trying to interest him in a piece of browning banana, Jude turned bright red and his eyes watered as he assumed a look of intense concentration. ‘Oh right,’ Stu said, ‘okay. Where does Mum keep the changing stuff?’
* * *
Abi sat on the bus watching each call come in, forbidding herself to pick up. Phil had felt that no intervention, no assistance of any kind, was very much the order of the day. It was always useful, she felt, for men to have a clear sense of what life would be like without a helpmate, ‘which is why I once spent four days at the Hydro Majestic in Medlow Bath when Freddie was still in nappies. It was something of a walk-out, Abigail, and when I returned Frederick’s gratitude erred towards the pathetic.’
She only hoped that Stu had found the two pages of written instructions she’d left on the table, beside the nappies, rusks, a change of clothes and the only dummy that would get him to sleep in the daytime. Abi let her head rest against the bus window, feeling the vibration against her forehead. Her eyelids drooped and she could not have said how long she stayed like that before the driver announced her stop, and she walked in the front gates of the university.
56.
Mate, can babies eat toast?
Stu lay Jude down on the mattress and tried to tug the overalls off. Jude kept trying to twist away from him, forcing Stu to lay over his top half to pin him flat, feeling around blindly for the buckles.
