Thursdays in the Park

by Hilary Boyd

  Jeanie felt her heart begin to race with indignation. ‘Space’? He needs ‘space’? This arrogant, weasel-faced layabout, who takes advantage of Chanty’s misplaced love on a daily basis to feed, clothe and house him, never contributing a single, solitary penny, and resenting his own beautiful daughter, has the nerve to whine about ‘space’! And to crown it all his paintings to date were, in her opinion, derivative, abstract, sub-Hodgkin crap.

  ‘I’ll bring her back around five.’ She tried to smile but felt the anger sticking to her face like a neon sign.

  ‘Sure . . . whenever . . . see you later, sweetie.’ Alex bent to kiss his daughter on the top of her head, avoiding his mother-in-law’s eye.

  ‘Sing a song of sixpence, a pocket full of rye.’ Jeanie took a deep breath and sang to her granddaughter as they walked up the hill to the park. She berated herself for her inability to be more grown-up. But she had been there when Chanty, eight months pregnant, had collapsed on her parents’ kitchen floor, clutching the monstrous note Alex had left:

  This isn’t working for me,

  I’m not ready to be a father, I have so much to achieve.

  Please forgive me.

  I love you, but this has all been a terrible mistake.

  Alex x

  The note wasn’t scribbled in an agony of flight, which vastly added to the offence in Jeanie’s mind. No, it was carefully penned with black, heavy flourishes on a thick cream card, set out in column format, for all the world like an invitation to a party.

  Chanty had literally been unable to breathe, and by the time George had called an ambulance and they’d sirened her off to A & E, it was clear Chanty was in labour. So this man she was now supposed to like and accept – love, even – had put the very life of his daughter, and indeed Jeanie’s daughter, in jeopardy through his selfishness.

  Ellie took it all in her small stride, however. She’d spent forty-eight hours in an incubator to stabilize her breathing, but she’d never looked remotely frail. No thanks to Alex.

  ‘Again . . . again, Gin,’ Ellie was insisting. So Jeanie sang again, watching with delight as Ellie’s blonde curls swung to and fro to the tune.

  But if Chanty had chosen to forgive him, and George – not being the sort to dwell on these things much – had managed to get past it, Jeanie had not. Every time she saw him she was reminded of her daughter’s face, permanently ravaged by tears, as she struggled to cope with her baby alone in the months before Alex had condescended to return.

  The playground was empty except for one boy of about four and his father, who were racing round on either side of the roundabout, spinning it at high speed and shouting with laughter.

  ‘Swin . . . swin . . . come on.’ Ellie, released from her buggy, made straight for the swings. This, experience told Jeanie, could go on for hours, her granddaughter falling into an almost trance-like state as she swung, urging her grandmother, ‘Higher, higher!’ if Jeanie threatened to slack.

  Today Ellie was spellbound not by the swing, but by the boy and his father. Her face lit up with laughter as she watched their antics. Then suddenly the boy let go of the blue-painted handhold and raced across the spongy playground tarmac towards his ball, cutting directly across the trajectory of Ellie’s swing. Jeanie heard the shout, ‘Dylan!’ at the same time as she lunged for the swing basket, jerking her granddaughter to a halt as the boy sailed blithely past, quite unconscious of the inch of daylight that had spared him a nasty injury.

  ‘Dylan!’ Jeanie turned and saw the man’s face, white and shocked as he ran over to his son and, instead of berating him, just held him tight until the boy squirmed free and went back to his ball.

  He rose to his feet, and although he was a thickset man, his movement was surprisingly graceful and fluid. Jeanie watched him brush his hand backwards and forwards across his greying, corn-stubble hair in a gesture that reminded her of a child with a comfort blanket.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Thanks a million.’

  Jeanie shrugged, smiled. ‘It happens all the time.’

  ‘Well, it can’t happen to Dylan, not even once.’ His tone sounded almost desperate.

  ‘Your son’s OK, a miss is as good as a mile,’ she said soothingly, thinking he must be a playground novice to take on so.

  The man looked blank for a second. ‘Oh . . . God no, this isn’t my son, it’s my grandson. Dylan’s my daughter’s boy. You’ve probably guessed I don’t come out with him much. In fact, this is only the fourth time she’s let me.’ He breathed deeply. ‘And it’d have been well and truly the last if that swing’d hit him.’

  ‘Down . . . down, Gin,’ Ellie was insisting. She had her eye on Dylan’s ball. Jeanie lifted her out and she ran off to stand staring shyly beside the older boy.

  ‘Let the little girl play too,’ his grandfather called out, to which Dylan paid absolutely no attention.

  ‘So how old’s your daughter?’

  Jeanie laughed. ‘Touché . . . Ellie’s my granddaughter . . . she’s two and a bit.’

  He laughed too, holding his hands up in protest. ‘It wasn’t flattery, honest. I just assumed.’ He looked away, embarrassed.

  There was an awkward silence and Jeanie glanced around for her granddaughter, who was now totally involved in chasing Dylan and his ball, shrieking with laughter whenever he allowed her to get close.

  ‘Odd thing, grandchildren,’ the man said, gazing after the boy. ‘I didn’t think it would be such a big deal.’ It was almost as if he were talking to himself. ‘But I find he means everything to me.’

  His words surprised Jeanie, not because she didn’t believe in their sincerity – or the sentiment, for that matter – but because it seemed such a personal remark to make to a complete stranger.

  ‘I know . . . I know what you mean,’ she found herself replying, because she too had been overwhelmed by her feelings for her granddaughter since the first moment she’d held Ellie in her arms, waiting as they prepared the incubator at the hospital for the little body. It had literally been love at first sight. ‘Perhaps it’s because we don’t feel old enough,’ she said, smiling.

  The man laughed. ‘That’s certainly true.’

  ‘It’s a bit like a drug,’ she went on. ‘If I don’t see her for a couple of days I get withdrawal symptoms.’ She laughed, shy suddenly, in a very British way, about the strength of her feelings. Because she hadn’t been one of those mothers who pester their offspring to make them a grandmother. In fact when Chanty had told her she was pregnant, Jeanie had been a bit daunted, selfishly fearing the interference in her busy life.

  Dylan came bounding up to his grandfather. ‘Grandpa, she won’t leave me alone . . . she keeps getting in the way every time I kick the ball.’

  The man shrugged. ‘She’s only little, Dylan. Be kind.’

  The boy looked up at him, a frustrated frown on his face, and Jeanie thought how exceptionally beautiful he was with his golden skin and bright, water-green eyes.

  ‘Go on,’ the man urged, ‘play with her for a bit. It won’t hurt you.’

  Dylan stomped off, clutching his ball possessively to his chest.

  ‘He’s a lovely child.’

  He nodded proudly. ‘So’s your granddaughter.’

  Which was true. Ellie mostly took after her mother – strong, blonde and single-minded – but Ellie’s was the cherubic blondeness of babyhood, coupled with George’s vast, limpid brown eyes.

  ‘I’d better be off.’ Jeanie called to her granddaughter and moved towards the buggy.

  ‘Maybe see you again,’ the man suggested.

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘I take Dylan every Thursday now. My daughter works and the childminder’s going for radiotherapy at the hospital on a Thursday – she’s had breast cancer.’

  ‘Oh . . . I hope she’s all right,’ Jeanie muttered politely.

  ‘It gives me a chance to see Dylan,’ the man went on, then stopped. ‘Sorry, that sounds callous. I didn’t mean I was happy she had breast cancer .
. .’ He tailed off.

  ‘No, I’m sure not.’ She smiled at his confusion. ‘Well, bye then.’ Jeanie hurried off to scoop up her granddaughter in an effort to save the man further embarrassment.

  3

  Jeanie tossed the hot penne with the tomato and basil sauce and tipped it into a large blue earthenware bowl. It was quiet in the big kitchen, the sun casting a soft, golden glow on the garden beyond the French windows. This was the room she liked best, and where they spent most of their time. To Jeanie the Georgian house had a stiff, solemn nature, and although the rooms had high ceilings and good proportions, it felt somehow sad. But the kitchen was south facing and, since they’d put in the windows on to the terrace, full of light. George had wanted an Aga when they’d refurbished the old kitchen, but Jeanie had insisted on a sleek, modern Bosch gas range, and warm terracotta tiles to replace the dreary linoleum. It was now a bright, clean room, the glass-fronted dresser painted in National Trust Woodlawn Charm blue, the colour picked up on the cornices and door.

  George had seemed very pensive since he got back from golf, and now he sat silently at the end of the kitchen table, a glass of red wine in one hand, his corduroy slipper flapping gently to and fro on his crossed foot. A copy of Time magazine was in front of him on the wooden table, but he wasn’t reading it; he was staring at his wife.

  ‘Why were you so late back?’ he asked.

  Jeanie’s heart sank. Here we go, she thought.

  ‘I went to look at a new organic salad producer. In Potter’s Bar. I told you.’

  ‘But you said that was at two. You can’t have been there five hours, surely.’

  Her husband’s eyes drilled into her, as if he was trying to search her soul. The tension, even at a distance, was palpable.

  ‘I went back to the shop afterwards. I needed to do stuff.’ She sighed and plonked the bowl of penne on to the table with unnecessary force.

  ‘Ah . . . so when did you get back to the shop?’

  ‘Stop it, George, please.’

  She always found herself responding to George’s ludicrous monitoring as a reflex, before she remembered that by answering she was giving his anxiety credence.

  ‘Stop what? I was just enquiring about your day. Isn’t that what husbands are supposed to do?’

  Jeanie saw him take a deep breath, and knew that the inquisition was over for the time being. To give George his due, he did try and control himself once the involuntary spasm had passed.

  ‘How was the game?’ she asked, placing beside her husband a block of fresh Parmesan she had taken from the deli cabinet in the shop. George was usually full of his golf, regaling her with tales of skulduggery committed by his Thursday partner. Danny, if her husband was to be believed, enjoyed cheating more than he enjoyed the game itself.

  But this evening George just pushed his glasses back up his nose and took the serving spoon his wife proffered.

  ‘Oh . . . OK. Danny won as usual.’

  ‘And?’ Jeanie grated some cheese over her pasta.

  She saw her husband take a deep breath.

  ‘Jeanie.’ He paused, then planted his hands squarely on the table on either side of his plate, his thumbs grasping the rough underside. ‘I’ve been thinking . . .’

  Jeanie frowned, waited. George sounded unusually ponderous.

  ‘Go on then,’ she said impatiently, when her husband said nothing further. ‘You’re making me nervous.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about this for a long time now, and it seems the right time, with you coming up sixty next month.’ Again he paused.

  Jeanie found her heart was beating hard. Was he going to tell her he was leaving her? Perhaps he’d had a mistress for the last decade and he wanted to spend his declining years in her arms, she thought whimsically. It might account for things. She shook herself. ‘Yes?’ she urged him on.

  ‘You know we’ve been saying for ages we’ll get a weekend cottage? Well, I’ve been thinking, and it seems daft to me, having two houses when there’s just us.’

  Jeanie nodded. ‘Perhaps you’re right. It would have been good to have somewhere to escape to, but there’s always a pressure to go all the time, and my busiest time is the weekend.’

  For a moment they ate in silence.

  ‘I didn’t mean that quite,’ George went on, beginning to fiddle with the bread on his plate, breaking it into tiny pieces and balling each piece up before dropping it back on to the pile.

  Again Jeanie waited, puzzled, as her husband slowly, meticulously munched on his pasta.

  ‘I meant that instead of getting a weekend place, we should sell up and move to the country. Live there.’

  ‘What?’ Jeanie was stunned. ‘Sell this house? Are you serious?’

  George blinked and swilled his wine round his glass before taking a long sip. ‘I know. It’s quite a step.’

  ‘But this house has been in your family for generations.’

  ‘What difference does that make?’ He sounded genuinely surprised.

  ‘What country? Where?’ Jeanie didn’t know where to start, this was so totally out of the blue. George had been living in the rambling Highgate house when she first met him in the seventies. Back then he was camping on the sofa in what he called the morning room, amongst his deceased Uncle Raymond’s books and paraphernalia, not having a clue how to proceed. It had been Jeanie who had taken it in hand, packing away the heavy Victorian furniture in the attic and bringing the house into the twentieth century with bright paint and modern fabrics. Despite her own reservations, Jeanie had always thought George loved living there.

  ‘But there’s the shop, I can’t leave that,’ Jeanie went on, still in shock from her husband’s announcement.

  ‘Well, you’ll retire when you’re sixty, won’t you. Any time now.’ He grinned.

  ‘Retire?’

  ‘Jeanie, you’re sixty next month. People retire at sixty, women anyway. You’ve often said what a nightmare the shop is, how tired it makes you. I’ve been retired for years,’ George pointed out reasonably.

  Jeanie got up and began pacing the tiles, her supper forgotten. ‘For heaven’s sake, George. Sixty is no age these days. And anyway, it should be my decision when I pack it in, not yours.’ She glared at him.

  ‘I’m not deciding anything . . . calm down, won’t you, old girl.’ George shook his head in bewilderment. ‘I thought you’d like the idea. This is only a discussion. You always say you love the country.’

  ‘Stop calling me “old girl”. You know I hate it,’ she snapped. ‘Yes, I love the country for a weekend, to loll about in with a book, go for the odd walk. But I don’t want to live there. What country, anyway?’ she asked again.

  George sighed. ‘Dorset, I thought, near the coast, sort of Lyme way. It’s beautiful there.’

  Jeanie stared at him. ‘You’ve really thought this out, haven’t you?’

  Her husband nodded. ‘I want to get out of London, Jeanie – I don’t see the point in us being here any more. It would give us a new start, you and me.’

  ‘You were bored to death when you grew up down there,’ Jeanie commented, ignoring the rest of his remark. For a long time now she had suspected that he resented her involvement in her business. He had never said as much, but there had been hints.

  ‘Yes, but I was a teenager. Things are different now, obviously. At our age we want different things from our life.’

  ‘You might. I don’t,’ Jeanie retorted. ‘What about all our friends, your golf? What about Ellie?’ She thought mention of her granddaughter would be the trump card that would put an end to this nonsense.

  ‘Ellie can visit, come and stay for weekends and holidays. She’ll love it, it’ll do her so much good to get out of London. And we’ll make friends. There are even golf courses in Dorset, believe it or not.’ George grinned. ‘Listen, Jeanie, just think about it, that’s all I’m asking. It seems ridiculous, two old people rattling around in this vast house, and since Mrs Miller retired the place isn’t even cle
an. We could put the money to much better use.’

  ‘Money isn’t an issue, as you well know. The cleaning’s gone to pot, but that’s easily rectified. Jola has a friend who’s willing to come a couple of mornings. I just need to get it organized.’

  He looked at her, tolerantly amused, as if anything she said was of little importance. ‘I’ve set my heart on this, old girl.’ He spoke softly, with his usual deceptively mild manner, but Jeanie heard the finality with dread.

  ‘I said stop calling me that. We’re not old,’ she muttered weakly. ‘Really, George, we’re not. Only middle-aged.’

  With that the discussion was closed, but Jeanie spent a sleepless night. George always got what he wanted. It was his house, and finally, if he decided to sell it, there wasn’t much she could do to stop him. He was old-fashioned in that way. Although she was the businesswoman who ran a successful health-food shop on the high street, it was George who took care of the business side of their lives. He decided how to invest their money, whether they needed repairs to the house or extensive garden, when it was time to get a new car, and he dealt with all the bills. She was perfectly capable, but he wouldn’t have considered involving her. Would he really sell this place without her agreement, she wondered, as dawn began to lighten the sky and his cautious tread set off on its usual path.

  Chanty opened the door to her parents. ‘Shhh . . . Ellie’s still asleep and she’s been a nightmare all day. We’re in the garden.’

  They tiptoed through the house and out on to the fashionably faded decking. Easter lunch was laid for eight on the wrought-iron table – white cloth, polished glass and silverware glinting prettily in the April sunshine. It was surprisingly warm. Jeanie wished she’d brought her sunglasses.

  ‘Hi there, Alex.’ George moved to shake his son-in-law’s hand. Alex had made an effort today. The habitual shabby tee had been replaced by a crumpled blue shirt, and to Jeanie’s relief he smelt of soap rather than paint and stale sweat.