Thursdays in the Park

by Hilary Boyd

  ‘I know you didn’t.’ Jeanie smiled at him. ‘Ellie hasn’t got the running thing sorted quite yet.’

  Dylan brightened. ‘She’s only small,’ he agreed, from the lofty heights of a nearly-four-year-old. ‘Come on.’ He grabbed her hand and pulled gently at Ellie, eager to get back to the game.

  The rain poured down, cooling the air and darkening the sky, the water dripping off the overhanging roof like a curtain, cutting them off in a damp, chilly world of their own. For a moment there was an awkward silence.

  ‘Shall we sing? Like in the movies.’ The man grinned. ‘Ideally we need a nun with a guitar, a woman in labour, a precocious kid and a brute-turned-hero, but failing that, we could try something dramatic and gloomy of our own to pass the time till we’re rescued.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know . . . how about . . .’ He paused, straightened himself in his seat, his chest puffed out like an opera tenor, and began to sing the teenage tragedy tune from the sixties about the boy racer whose car crashes and whose dying words are: Tell Laura I love her. His voice was low but tunefully confident. As he finished they both began to laugh.

  ‘The old ones are always the best ones,’ she joked, and they sang the chorus again together, loudly this time, exaggerating the melodrama. The two children meanwhile had stopped playing, and were standing in front of them, wide-eyed at the spectacle.

  ‘I’m Ray, by the way,’ the man introduced himself.

  ‘Jeanie,’ she said, and they shook hands across the wooden table.

  ‘Do many of your friends have grandchildren?’

  Jeanie shook her head. ‘None. My closest friend doesn’t have children, even, but none of the others have yet. I suppose they have boys . . . takes longer.’

  ‘Ellie’s your daughter’s child, then?’

  ‘Yes, Chanty works full-time; her husband does most of the childcare.’

  ‘So your help is much appreciated, I imagine.’

  Jeanie shrugged. ‘Not altogether. I don’t get on too well with my son-in-law, there’s history.’

  Ray sighed. ‘Ah, families . . . can’t live with them, can’t live without them. But Nat, that’s my daughter, seems to be coming round to me. She’s even letting me take the boy swimming next week.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘Oh, the usual, I left her mother. But being me I picked the worst way to do it. I fell in love with my wife’s best friend’s twenty-one-year-old daughter . . . didn’t go down too well.’

  Jeanie digested this information. ‘How old was your daughter?’

  ‘Nine. And Carol wouldn’t let me see her after that. Called me a paedophile, etc., moved to Leicester, kept changing her phone number and sending back the cards and presents I sent Nat. Eventually I stopped even trying and we lost touch for years.’ He rubbed his hand across his hair. ‘Listen, I was a crap father. I don’t blame Nat.’

  ‘Why did she get in touch with you again?’

  ‘She wouldn’t have if it hadn’t been for Dylan’s dad. Ronnie’s a musician, West Indian, does kids’ education stuff. He never knew his father, and when Nat was pregnant he persuaded her for the baby’s sake to get in touch.’ He paused. ‘You don’t want to hear all this,’ he finished softly.

  There was silence as they both looked out at the sky and realized the rain had stopped.

  ‘I’d better get Ellie home, I suppose, or said son-in-law will kick off,’ she said, and was surprised at her own reluctance.

  ‘Come and look at this.’ George waved excitedly to his wife later that day.

  Jeanie put the paper down and went and stood behind George at his desk.

  ‘Get your glasses . . . you need to see properly.’

  She looked at the screen and saw a photo of a huge country house.

  ‘Isn’t it beautiful? And look . . .’ He clicked the mouse over the first of a row of smaller photos to show the interior of a spacious drawing room, sun streaming enticingly through the open window, then another click and a kitchen with a gleaming red Aga set in a slightly past-its-best Smallbone kitchen. Jeanie checked the estate agent’s specification at the bottom of the page.

  ‘It’s huge . . . five bedrooms and fifteen acres. That’s ridiculous, George, you said we were rattling around here, but that’s just as big.’

  George shrugged. ‘Ah yes, but in the country we’ll need space for the family to stay. Isn’t it beautiful?’

  ‘Yes, it’s beautiful, but that isn’t reason enough to buy it.’

  ‘Well, check this one out.’ The process began all over again. This time the house was a vicarage in Somerset. ‘This has five bedrooms too, but we can each have one as a study. And it’s just been refurbished. Look, can’t you just see Ellie adoring that garden? It’s even got a stream.’

  ‘She’ll drown,’ Jeanie snapped. ‘Listen, George, can we talk?’

  George tore himself away from the screen and swivelled on his desk chair to face her, his eyes still alight with enthusiasm.

  ‘Did you hear me when I said that I had no intention of moving to the country?’

  George blinked. ‘Of course I did.’

  ‘Well, what are you doing then?’

  ‘I’m looking for a house, because I just know it’s the right thing for us. And of course you’re going to take some time to get used to the idea. Chanty and I were having a laugh about that on Sunday. You always have to be carried kicking and screaming into a new venture. Remember the shop?’ George was smiling at his wife with an affection which, Jeanie thought furiously, would have seemed touching to an untrained observer.

  ‘You make me sound like a toddler,’ she told him, ignoring the remark about the shop. He always threw this in her face as an example of how he knew her better than she knew herself. It had been George, ten years ago and just after the debacle in the bedroom, who’d suggested buying the premises. They were out for a walk one day and noticed the shop was up for sale. Jeanie hadn’t taken him seriously. She was still angry with him, and thought this was a sop to her damaged ego. But he knew opening a health-food store had been something she’d wanted to do for years. In the end, yielding to the same dogged persuasion he was using now, she had agreed. She was heartily sick of being grateful to him.

  George raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Can’t we rent somewhere first like we were planning before, see if we like it?’

  He shook his head stubbornly. ‘I don’t want a weekend cottage – renting’s such a waste of money. No, I want to move out of London.’

  ‘And if I don’t agree?’

  ‘But Jeanie darling, you will. When you see some of the houses on offer, you’ll be gagging to get down there. I mean, what’s not to like?’ He pointed at the house on the screen. ‘Chanty agrees that it’s a brilliant plan,’ he added for backup.

  ‘This isn’t Chanty’s life, George.’

  ‘Just go with it, will you? Trust me. Come and see some properties and then we can make the decision. Yes?’

  Jeanie gave up. For a second she had a horrible vision – herself surrounded by what Rita termed ‘mud and the sartorially challenged’ without knowing how she’d got there. And George, of course.

  5

  ‘Mum, we need to talk about the party, it’s only three weeks away.’

  They were sitting opposite each other in the small paved garden at the back of Pomegranate, in the half-hour before opening time. Jeanie had recently installed four tables for customers to sit and drink their juice and smoothies. She moved back under the umbrella, out of the morning sun.

  ‘Haven’t we done everything?’ Jeanie found the whole idea of a gathering to celebrate her official decrepitude profoundly depressing. It had been Chanty who said it would be fun.

  ‘Yes, but I’m away for a week, don’t forget. Has everyone replied?’

  Jeanie nodded. ‘Forty-three, last count.’ Her friends had been alarmingly enthusiastic.

  ‘But we have table plans to do, decisions about speeche
s, what time we have dinner, what the quartet is going to play. If we leave anything to chance it’ll be a disaster. I mean, has anyone checked if there are any special diets? We’ll have to let the caterers know.’

  ‘Special diets?’ Jeanie looked blank.

  ‘Yes, Mum, vegetarians, gluten allergies, nuts, that sort of thing.’

  ‘My friends were born before the advent of nut allergies,’ she said tartly, then paused to trawl through the guest list. ‘No, everyone has their teeth as far as I know. I can’t even drum up a vegetarian.’

  Chanty laughed. ‘OK, OK, don’t start on about my “neurotic” generation.’

  ‘How did Ellie get on at nursery?’ Jeanie had thought her granddaughter too young, but it had been Alex pushing to have more time to himself that had swung it with her daughter. Jeanie didn’t blame her: she realized Chanty must be frightened of losing him again.

  ‘She loved it.’ Chanty’s face softened, ‘They let her paint to her heart’s content. Now, Mum, can we get on with it? I have to get to work, I’m late already.’

  The following Thursday, when she arrived to pick up her granddaughter, she was surprised to find that Alex was uncommonly welcoming. He actually seemed to want to engage her in conversation.

  ‘Chanty says the party is coming along well.’

  ‘Uh yes, I suppose so.’

  ‘You don’t sound too keen.’ He smiled sympathetically, his tone bearing none of the usual teasing malice.

  Jeanie eyed him suspiciously. ‘To be honest, I’m dreading it.’

  Alex laughed. ‘I don’t blame you. My idea of a nightmare.’

  ‘What, a party?’

  ‘No, turning sixty.’

  ‘And there was me thinking you were on my side for once,’ Jeanie snorted, looking around in search of Ellie’s shoes.

  ‘I am,’ he insisted, grinning. ‘But I have to be honest, don’t I?’

  ‘Not relentlessly.’

  ‘Sorry . . . sorry, I didn’t know it was such a big deal. You look great for your age.’

  There it was again: ‘for your age’ was probably Jeanie’s least favourite phrase. But she was taken aback by her sonin-law’s unique attempt at a compliment.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You see, Jean, I reckon we got off to a bad start,’ Alex was saying, as she took Ellie on her knee and struggled to exchange slippers for outdoor shoes.

  Jeanie bit her tongue and waited, wondering where this was going. Was he having therapy? Did he need money?

  ‘And I’d like it if we could have a truce and be friends.’

  She realized in that moment that it’s never easy to give up a habit, even a stupid habit like hating your son-in-law. Part of her enjoyed it, although it shamed her to admit it, and enjoyed the fact that she could justify her sniping. Every fibre of her being resisted now. It was almost painful to smile at Alex without giving it a sardonic edge, but she made the effort. ‘The thing is . . .’

  ‘I know, you don’t trust me not to betray Chanty again.’

  Jeanie nodded.

  ‘The truth is, nor do I, but I’m giving it my best shot.’

  ‘That’s not exactly what a mother wants to hear, although as usual I can’t fault your honesty.’

  Alex’s black curls were snared in a loose knot behind his head. With his narrow face revealed he looked younger, more vulnerable.

  ‘But there are no guarantees, are there? Not in relationships.’

  Jeanie was forced to agree. ‘Why now?’

  If she hadn’t caught the slide of Alex’s glance, she would have decided reluctantly in his favour.

  He shrugged. ‘Does there have to be a reason?’

  ‘There doesn’t have to be . . . but there usually is.’

  Alex shrugged, ‘Have it your way. Does the truce still stand?’

  He held out his hand to her and she took it.

  When Jeanie drew level with the playground, she felt a twinge of disappointment not to see Ray and Dylan there.

  Ellie had forsworn the swing today and was on one of her circuits up and down the slide. A child in front of her was trying one of those small boy show-off moves and came down head first on his back. Of course Ellie wanted to do it too, but couldn’t quite work out how to position herself to achieve it. So she stood at the top of the metal run, her head down, hands hanging by her side, and howled. Jeanie took her off and hugged her, but the child, for some reason, was inconsolable.

  ‘Let’s go and have a look at the new playground,’ she eventually suggested as a diversion, and Ellie was visibly cheered, taking off on her strong little legs at a run up the hill, her curls flying in the wind, while Jeanie hurried along behind with the buggy.

  She saw them immediately as they rounded the corner. Ray was perched on the edge of the light-wood climbing frame, guiding his grandson’s progress across the highest bar.

  Ellie shrieked with delight at the sight of Dylan, and clamoured to climb up to where he was, but the frame was meant for much older children, and Jeanie began to regret her decision.

  ‘It’s too high, darling. You’re not big enough.’

  As her granddaughter stood crestfallen, clearly deciding whether a tantrum would help her cause, Ray lifted Dylan clear of the structure.

  ‘Let’s do the swing, boy.’

  A gang of small children were already engaged in running backwards and forwards across the brand new rubber-covered mound beside the rope swing, and Ellie quickly forgot about Dylan and joined them.

  Jeanie sat down on the grass and Ray threw himself down beside her, sitting cross-legged and picking at the grass and fallen twigs.

  ‘How’s it going?’

  Jeanie shrugged. ‘OK, I suppose. You?’

  ‘That doesn’t sound so good.’

  ‘Oh, you know.’

  He looked at her. His grey-green eyes, so similar to his grandson’s, were very clear, very bright.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Tell me.’

  Jeanie didn’t say anything.

  ‘Listen, it’s your turn, you’ve listened to my boring tales of dysfunctional families.’

  For a moment she didn’t reply. Then something suddenly snapped in Jeanie, as if years of holding on had finally turned her resistance to dust.

  ‘Do you really want to know?’ she said, hearing the defiance in her voice with surprise.

  ‘Sure.’

  He looked taken aback but Jeanie breathed deeply, determined. For days now she’d felt irritable with those around her, on edge, with an overwhelming desire to unburden herself. You’re it, she thought, as she stared at this oddly sympathetic stranger.

  ‘OK.’ She took another breath, hesitated. ‘Well . . . I’m sixty in a few weeks, and my husband and daughter have decided I’m now, officially, old. So they want me to give up the health-food shop that I own, that I love, that is bloody successful, and shuffle off to the country. They can’t understand why I’m not jumping at the chance of retirement in some dozy Somerset village. Scones and jam by the fire, pottering around the begonias, church fetes, general innocent country jolliness. Am I . . .?’ As she spoke, she found with horror that her throat was constricting with incipient tears, that her voice was faltering. Ray just watched her, seemingly without a trace of embarrassment, waiting for her to finish.

  ‘Is that it, then?’ She pushed through the tears. ‘Am I supposed to just give in? Give up?’

  ‘What would you like to do?’

  ‘What I do now. I like my life. Well, most of it.’

  ‘Which bit don’t you like?’

  Jeanie stared at him. ‘What a strange question.’

  Ray laughed. ‘Is it?’

  ‘Well, yes. Everyone has bits they don’t like in their lives, but they don’t really count, do they? I mean, I could go on forever about the bits I don’t like.’ She found she was gabbling and didn’t know why. This man was unsettling in his directness, dangerously easy to confide in. ‘You shouldn’t go round asking people why they aren’t happy
. It’s best not to think about it.’

  ‘Sorry.’ He looked baffled by her outburst and she had to laugh.

  ‘No, definitely my turn to apologize,’ she said. ‘I’m behaving like a madwoman.’ She searched for a tissue in her coat pocket.

  ‘Surely your desires are important to your husband, aren’t they?’ Ray was saying. It was as if he could see into her soul with those bright, clear eyes. The tears began again.

  ‘You shouldn’t have started this,’ she muttered, almost beyond embarrassment now.

  ‘I didn’t mean to, I just . . .’ He looked away, and for a moment they both silently watched the children running to and fro around the playground.

  ‘I don’t feel old, I really don’t.’ She was trying, unsuccessfully, to gulp back her tears, but she had ceased to care what Ray thought; the desire to vent her feelings was too strong for her to stop now. ‘I don’t feel any different. I’m healthy and strong. I can’t do it, I can’t . . . rotting away with a man who doesn’t even care about me enough to make love to me . . . hasn’t for a decade.’

  She gasped as she heard her own words, her face suffused scarlet with shame. She covered her face with her hands, wishing the earth would swallow her up.

  She heard Ray draw in a long breath.

  ‘That must be difficult.’ He spoke slowly, carefully.

  Jeanie shook her head in amazement at herself. ‘Listen, I can’t believe I said that . . . to you . . . a perfect stranger. I’m so sorry . . . it’s the most embarrassing thing.’

  Ray laughed. ‘To you, maybe, but . . .’

  A phone rang nearby, and Ray dived for his jacket.

  ‘Saved by the bell,’ she muttered ruefully.

  ‘Hi . . . yes . . . yes . . . no, I won’t be back today; I’ll deal with it first thing. Thanks for letting me know, Mica . . . yeah, bye.’ He slipped his phone into the pocket of his shirt. ‘That was the club.’

  ‘Grandpa! Grandpa! I need to pee . . . badly, Grandpa.’ Dylan was standing in front of Ray, hopping up and down and holding his crotch. Ray jumped up.

  ‘Come on . . .’ And they headed off at a run towards the bushes at the edge of the park, leaving Jeanie feeling as if she’d just tottered off a switchback ride.