by Fiona Gibson
‘Okay,’ he says dully.
‘And Rob, I love you, you know that, don’t you?’
He opens his mouth, but more tears are falling and all he can do is make a strange, puppy-like yelp.
‘Rob? Are you okay?’
He clears his throat, his face now utterly wet as he says, ‘Kerry, I’m so sorry. There’s something you have to know.’
Chapter Sixteen
They say grief comes in stages. Maybe it does, if it’s the kind associated with running out of eye cream or scuffing the toe of a favourite shoe. Not a husband saying, I know how this sounds but I promise you I can’t remember a thing … yes, it does seem impossible but it has happened before – er, yes, with you … Only once or twice during the early days when we’d been out and come home drunk – no, of course I didn’t admit it, you’d have been horrified …
And that had been that. Thirteen years together melted away in an instant, like candyfloss on a tongue. As for the ‘stages’ – anger, grief, depression in whichever order they’re supposed to come – Kerry hasn’t had time for anything so orderly. The rest of yesterday had passed in a blur (she was too blown away to even cry). Rob had called twice more, sobbing inconsolably and begging to drive down and see her; she’d had no option but to cut him off mid-flow. After collecting the children from school, she’d spent an hour on the phone to Anita, and the rest of the evening had been spent Acting Normal in front of the children. It was only later in bed that she’d allowed herself to cry – and, once she’d started, she’d feared that she might never be able to stop. And now, at 8.10 a.m. on a grey Wednesday morning, Kerry must continue to behave as if nothing untoward has happened. Her marriage may be over but she must still brush hair, put out juice and cereal and locate gym shoes and playtime snacks deemed acceptable at Shorling Primary (e.g. little pouches of dried apricots from the wholefood store; crisps, it would appear, are regarded as the devil’s work).
The landline rings and, without thinking, she grabs it. ‘It’s me,’ Rob croaks.
‘What d’you want?’
‘I need to talk to you …’ His voice is thick and hoarse, as if he’s been up all night.
Kerry blinks rapidly. ‘I can’t, not now …’
‘Please listen to me,’ he implores her. ‘Okay, it happened, but you have to believe that I can’t remember anything—’
‘Does that mean it doesn’t count?’ she snaps.
‘No, of course it does, I didn’t mean …’
‘Mummy, who’s on the phone?’ Mia demands from the breakfast table. ‘What doesn’t count?’
Kerry rubs her eyes and growls, ‘I’ve got to go,’ before abruptly ending the call.
‘Was that Daddy?’ Mia asks, grinning.
‘Yes, darling.’
‘Why did he phone?’ Freddie wants to know.
‘Oh … he just wanted to check something …’
‘Why didn’t he want to speak to me?’ Mia tosses her spoon into her empty cereal bowl.
Kerry blinks slowly. ‘He was in a rush, sweetie.’
Mia nods, apparently satisfied with this. ‘Remember it’s the feast today, Mummy.’
‘What feast?’ Kerry asks, hoping her pink, swollen eyes will continue to pass unnoticed.
‘The feast. I need my stuff, Mum. It said in that letter.’
‘What letter?’ Kerry chooses to ignore the fact that Freddie has picked up his bowl and is noisily slurping chocolate-tinged milk.
‘That letter from school,’ Mia says with a roll of her eyes. Ah, yes, Kerry vaguely remembers now. How remiss of her to allow torturous thoughts of her husband having energetic sex with a girl who was born in something like 1992 – she’s not even old enough to remember Britpop, for God’s sake – to take precedence over preparing for Miss Pettifer’s Egyptian banquet. Now, as she focuses hard, she vaguely recalls Mia’s teacher’s request for the kind of delicacies people would have enjoyed four thousand years ago, but she’s darned if she can remember what they are. The letter doesn’t appear to be lurking in the teetering pile of unattended-to mail on top of the microwave. Nor is it hiding in what Mia has christened the ‘everything drawer’ which, although they’ve only lived here for six weeks, is already jammed with take-away menus, matted hairbrushes and any random small item which has yet to be allocated a proper home.
‘We’ll have to forget about it,’ Kerry says briskly. ‘I’m sure everyone else will bring lots of things to share. I’ll write a note to Miss Pettifer saying I’m sorry but I totally forgot.’
Mia stares at her, aghast. ‘You can’t do that.’
‘Why not?’
‘I’ll be the only one!’ Mia’s mouth crumples and her dark eyes fill with tears.
‘Darling …’ Kerry puts an arm around her daughter but is abruptly shrugged off. ‘I’m really sorry but it’s quarter past eight and there isn’t time to get anything together.’
‘No one’ll let me share,’ Mia cries. ‘They’re not my friends …’
‘What makes you think that, hon?’
‘They’re just not!’ she shouts. ‘I’ve got to take something. We can buy stuff on the way to school …’
‘We could,’ Kerry says, feeling helpless, ‘but we don’t know what to buy.’
‘Stuff the Egyptians liked,’ Freddie offers helpfully.
‘I know, Freddie, but I don’t know what they liked.’
‘Why not?’ He throws her a disdainful look.
Because, sweethearts, your father has made someone else pregnant. Although I know that’s a shoddy excuse and, if I were a proper mother with one of those hyper-efficient maternal brains, I’d still be able to locate a typical menu from a pharaohs’ feast …
‘I can’t remember,’ she says, feeling horribly close to crying herself. The landline rings again; Kerry lifts the receiver and bangs it straight back down again.
‘Google it then,’ Mia commands.
Kerry tries to blink away the moisture that keeps blurring her vision. She thought she’d been doing so well today, breezing through the morning routine as if nothing untoward had happened. Now she’s hastily Googling ‘Egyptian food’ but all she can find is a theme restaurant called Cleopatra’s in nearby Sandhead where it appears that the waitresses wear gold crocheted headdresses.
Now Mia and Freddie are both looming over her as she scowls at an image of Lamb Koftas – ‘poos on sticks’, Freddie announces delightedly – on her laptop. With the best will in the world, these cannot be knocked together in the thirteen minutes before they must leave for school. Kerry flicks through other options: rice-stuffed pigeon. Yoghurt pudding with fried onions and a puddle of chicken broth. Honey and cinnamon pie …
‘You could take a jar of honey,’ she announces. ‘I read that someone discovered some from Ancient Egyptian times and it was still fine to eat …’
Mia shudders. ‘No, ew, it’d be dirty.’
‘No, ours wasn’t dug up. It’s from the Co-op. But it’ll still taste just like the kind they used to have—’
Mia shakes her head. ‘Don’t wanna take honey.’
‘What about fruit then? They must’ve had fruit …’ But when she Googles ‘Egyptian fruit’, all that pops up are Egyptian fruit bats for sale, £250 for a breeding pair.
‘Look, Mummy,’ Mia exclaims, jabbing the screen. ‘Figs.’
Kerry sighs. ‘If you moan about the apricots I give you for playtime, then I don’t think you’ll like figs.’
‘That’s ’cause those apricots are brown,’ she retorts. Yes, angel, because they’re from the hideously expensive wholefood store, i.e. sulphur dioxide-free, which is more important, apparently, than them being a prettier shade of orange …
‘Are you crying, Mummy?’ Freddie asks with interest.
‘No, I’ve just got something in my eye.’ She pulls a fake smile and rubs her leaking eyes on the sleeve of her top.
‘Figs are nice,’ Mia says levelly. ‘We had ’em at Nanny and Nonno’s with ham.’
Ah, Rob’s foodie parents who have always been unswervingly kind to their grandchildren, and almost like a surrogate mum and dad to Kerry. What will they make of the impregnation when he dares to tell them?
‘So,’ Mia says, having perked up now, ‘can we go to the fruit shop?’
‘Not at half-eight in the morning, no. Sorry, love. Come on now, you two – shoes on. We’ve got to go now.’ Amidst protests, Kerry switches off her laptop, crams small feet into shoes, hooks schoolbags onto their backs and grabs lunchboxes. She ushers them out and bangs the front door shut, realising that Freddie’s school trousers have a smear of mud on one leg but it’s too late to do anything about it now. Mia continues to protest, and Freddie refuses to hold Kerry’s hand as they cross the road.
‘Everyone else’ll have stuff,’ Mia grumbles, dragging her feet.
‘Yes, and I’m sure Miss Pettifer will make sure it’s all shared out …’
‘No, she won’t.’
‘Why d’you say that? You were telling me yesterday how kind she is …’
‘I hate it here!’ Mia announces, stopping in her tracks. ‘I hate it. I want to see Daddy and I want to go back to London.’
‘Mia, please …’ Her daughter’s eyes flood with tears, and Kerry bobs down to hug her tightly. ‘Come on, darling. You’ve been so good about moving …’
‘WHY CAN’T I HAVE FIGS?’ she roars, pulling away from Kerry, her cheeks flaming. Kerry stands there, feeling as if she’s been punched in the stomach.
‘Mia,’ she mutters, ‘please stop this …’
‘It’s not fair! I told you about the feast …’
Yes, and quite a lot has happened since then … A few metres ahead, a couple of mothers – each with an immaculate daughter – have turned back for a gawp, because not much happens in a genteel seaside town. (Kerry has noticed this: the way people stop and gaze when something of mild interest occurs, like a car exhaust backfiring or a plane flying overhead). Grabbing Mia and Freddie’s hands, she marches onwards, past the staring women – one auburn, one pale blonde, both wearing what would be termed ‘fun skirts’ in the Boden catalogue.
‘Did you hear that?’ one of the women hisses. ‘I can hardly believe it. That little girl was yelling for fags.’
Kerry turns to face them. ‘No, she wasn’t. She’s seven years old. She said figs, for the Egyptian feast at school.’
‘Oh!’ At least the auburn-haired one has the decency to blush. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean …’
‘It’s okay,’ Kerry says tersely.
‘That’s Mia, Mummy,’ the woman’s daughter announces. ‘She’s in my class.’
‘Hi, Audrey-Jane,’ Mia says shyly. ‘Hi, Tabitha.’ The blonde woman’s daughter grins, showing missing front teeth.
The auburn mother musters a smile. ‘Er, I’m Lara, this is Emily …’
‘Kerry.’
‘Nice to meet you, Kerry,’ Lara says rather coolly, as if still unconvinced over the fags issue.
‘You’ve moved into Maisie Cartwright’s house, haven’t you?’ Emily asks. Christ, does everyone know everything around here?
‘That’s right, she’s my aunt actually. She’s moved to Spain …’
‘So I heard. Is she enjoying it?’
Kerry casts her mind to the postcard she received this morning which she could hardly bear to read: I’m so happy that you, Rob and the children will be living in the cottage. I hope you have many happy years there … ‘Um, yes, she seems to be.’
‘Lucky woman,’ Emily says with a prim smile as they all start marching briskly towards school. ‘So, how are you settling in?’
‘Oh, we’re doing fine, thank you,’ Kerry says blithely.
‘My mummy forgot the Egyptian feast,’ Mia murmurs to Audrey-Jane.
‘God, so did I,’ Emily exclaims.
‘Me too,’ adds Lara, seemingly unconcerned, ‘but I’m not sure about food-sharing in the classroom anyway. I mean, you can’t be sure where everything’s come from …’ She winces at Kerry as if expecting her to agree, and the two friends fall into a discussion about various crimes against nutrition. Diluted cordial at the school Christmas party, fun-sized Mars Bars hidden during the Easter egg hunt … that’s the thing about living somewhere like this, Kerry realises. Everything’s so damned policed. You have those Beach Buddies, scanning the shoreline for so much as a discarded ice lolly stick, and mothers checking each other out as their ravenous children surge through the school gates at home time to be handed punnets of cherries and bottles of water.
As they turn into a side street, Kerry glances at the chalkboard propped up outside a sandwich shop. Char-grilled mozzarella and figs on lightly-toasted walnut sourdough …
‘Figs!’ she blurts out. ‘Look – FIGS!’
‘Sorry?’ Lara gives her a quizzical look.
‘Figs! They have figs here, and they’re open …’ And that’s not all. Manchego cheese with dates and Serrano ham … ‘Are dates Egyptian, Mia?’
‘Er, I think so. I don’t like ’em …’
‘It doesn’t matter what you like,’ Kerry says quickly. ‘Oh, and look, they do chargrilled chicken with spinach and honey and pomegranate dressing …’
‘The Egyptians had pomegranates,’ Tabitha exclaims as Kerry marches into the shop.
The gangly, dark-haired boy behind the counter couldn’t be sweeter, allowing her to buy an array of fruits and seeming unperturbed by the fact that she doesn’t require them to be turned into a sandwich.
‘You’ve just saved my life,’ she says, clutching the bulging brown paper bag.
‘Any time,’ he says grinning.
‘Well, thanks again. I’m so glad I spotted your shop. I hadn’t even noticed it until today.’
Outside, she shows Lara and Emily her purchases. ‘Well, that was very slick,’ Lara remarks, ‘but now we’re late and you know what Miss Pettifer’s like if they miss the bell.’
Be like that then, Kerry muses as they march onwards in a tense, stony-faced group. Pour scorn upon my Egyptian offerings that I managed to pull together less than twenty-four hours after my marriage went tits up.
*
Perhaps, Kerry surmises later, she has managed to pull off a small feat today, and not just for the school banquet. She has, after all, survived the first morning after Rob’s announcement. She may have shed a few tears but she hasn’t lain weeping with the children stepping over her in a puddle of gin on the kitchen floor. And when Anita arrives that evening, having driven down to Shorling straight after work, Kerry has already decided that, somehow, she’ll find a way through this thing that’s exploded in her face.
‘He’s the last person I’d have thought would do this,’ Anita declares, sipping tea in Kerry’s kitchen.
Kerry nods. ‘I know. Nice, reliable, respectable Rob – maybe it serves me right for being so complacent.’
‘But it’s insane, Kerry. It’s as if he went mad that night. You don’t think he’s ever done anything like this before, do you?’
‘No,’ Kerry says firmly. ‘I really don’t …’
‘And …’ Anita pauses. ‘I don’t suppose you can forgive him?’
‘How can I possibly when she’s pregnant?’
‘But …’ Anita pauses. ‘What if she’s lying and it’s not his?’
Kerry rubs her hands across her face as the sound of The Bare Necessities drifts through from the living room. ‘The thing is, it could be, and he’s certainly assuming it is.’
‘Why, though? He can’t even remember it happening. She might have made the whole thing up. Maybe they didn’t even do it—’
‘Oh, he’s got a history of being unable to remember whether he did it or not,’ Kerry cuts in bitterly. ‘Said it happened with me.’
Anita frowns. ‘Like some kind of blackout thing, you mean?’
Kerry nods miserably, the tears flowing unchecked now as Anita envelops her in a hug.
‘I’d want to kill him,’ her friend murmurs. ‘I can’t be
lieve the stupid sod has done this …’
‘Me too, and you know what the worst thing is right now – the thing I’m most dreading?’
‘Yes,’ Anita says softly. ‘How you’re going to tell the kids.’
And so later that evening, bolstered by Anita’s mercy dash, Kerry sits with Freddie and Mia on Freddie’s bed. ‘Listen,’ she begins, resting the storybook on her lap, ‘you know Daddy’s been staying in London these past few weeks?’
Mia nods while Freddie investigates his left ear with a finger. ‘Yeah. Read the story,’ he commands.
‘In a minute, darling. It’s just …’
‘Are you getting revorced?’ he cuts in.
‘Why d’you ask that?’ Kerry’s heart judders.
‘Tom’s mum and dad are getting revorced. He told me at school. He’s gonna have two bedrooms.’
‘Oh,’ Kerry says as Mia throws her a startled look. ‘Well, er, the word’s actually divorced, honey, and I don’t know. I mean, yes, maybe …’ Her children’s dark eyes are upon her, radiating alarm. ‘Daddy-has-a-new-girlfriend-they’re-having-a-baby,’ she blurts out in a rush.
There’s a startled silence. ‘They made a baby?’ Mia exclaims.
‘Um, yes.’
‘How?’ demands Freddie.
‘They just …’ She clears her throat. ‘They just did, like we made you.’
‘With kissing?’ Freddie asks.
‘Er, I expect so, yes …’ Kerry is aware of Mia snuggling closer and wrapping her arms around her.
‘Is Daddy gonna live with the new baby,’ she whispers, ‘and not us?’
‘I don’t know, darling,’ she says, pulling both of them close. ‘We’ll have to see.’ Silence seems to fill the small room with its jumble of books and games piled messily onto shelves. Kerry can’t even hear the sea.
‘I know what men and ladies do,’ Freddie says, brightening. ‘They take their clothes off and bounce on the bed.’
Mia glares at him, then up at her mother. ‘No they don’t. It’s seeds and eggs. I read it in a book.’
‘That’s right, sweetie. It was in that bodies book I gave you.’
