Fly in the Ointment

by Anne Fine

  She broke off jerking him this way and that, trying to release some zipper that had jammed. Despite herself, she was intrigued. ‘Borrow this whiny little bugger? Why would you want to do that?’

  ‘He’s the same size as my nephew Sandy and I want to buy some dungarees.’

  Her nod was almost sympathetic. ‘Size labelling for kids’ stuff is crap.’

  I was determined to show her that, on this issue at least, we sailed under much the same colours. I cranked up the sort of grinding negativity I knew would appeal to her. ‘It’s only so you end up buying more. Same with that stupid business of pink for girls and blue for boys. It’s the big shops that push it. You have a second child and chances are you can’t pass anything on.’

  Hoping I’d proved my credentials as a proper sourpuss, I waved a hand towards Larry. ‘So can I borrow him? Just for a little while?’

  It wasn’t in her not to take advantage of some fool who didn’t know the price and value of an hour’s peace. ‘Yes, you can have him. Do you want him now?’

  I dropped the last few pegs back in the basket. ‘Now would be wonderful.’

  On went her bargaining hat. ‘The thing is, I have to go out soon myself.’

  ‘That’s perfect, then. It will suit both of us.’

  ‘Not sure when I’ll be back.’

  ‘I’ll just hang on to him, then, shall I? Until you’re home?’

  ‘You can’t use this house. I’ve got no spare key.’

  ‘That’s not a problem. He can come back here. If he gets hungry I can give him tea.’

  The deal was done. I couldn’t help but notice she gave me no instructions for Larry’s benefit, only advice for my own. ‘If he keeps bawling, you could try shoving that stupid sucky rag he likes so much back in his face.’

  ‘I’ll try to remember that.’

  And I was off with Larry, down to the nearby park, and then, fearing she might come past and spot us, on to the next, half a mile further along. I kept up a stream of chatter and, each time we stopped at a kerb, leaned my head over so the poor mite could get used to the idea that it wasn’t his mother pushing him. He didn’t seem to care. Still making a puddle of the sticky cake she’d shoved in his hand to quieten him, he was absorbed in everything around us, pointing out each dog and quite unable to settle till I’d agreed, ‘Yes, it’s a doggie.’

  He seemed a little startled when, at the play park, I stopped to undo his safety clasp. But he scrambled out of the pushchair hastily enough. He wasn’t steady on his feet over the humpy verge surrounding the climbing frames or even, for a little while, on the strange spongy safety surface beneath the slides. Clearly since Guy had left he hadn’t spent nearly as much time as usual mucking about in parks. But he was soon on form, rushing from one thing to another, clambering up the rocket, hurling himself down the slide, demanding ‘Higher! Higher!’ on the swings.

  I kept my eye on the time. I could stay out till three at least, I reckoned, knowing from experience that when a small child’s out of the house, the hours fly past. I would have taken the chance to rush round cleaning and tidying or paying a few bills. I didn’t think that Janie Gay was the type to be bothered about getting on top of things. God alone knew where she’d go, or what she might be doing.

  All the way home, I ran through the plan I’d made to tempt the little chap into a level of confidence that meant he would be willing to come again. I’d stored the usual temptations in my kitchen: those chocolate finger biscuits children of his age adore. Tinned fruit. (I didn’t think he would be used to fresh.) Ice cream in several flavours. Even, in case of desperation, sweets.

  But once we were through the door, I swung into action. First I made toast. I cut the warm browned slices into tiny squares and spread each one with something different. Within a couple of minutes Larry was staring in wonder at a pretty plate of bite-sized pieces, each with a different topping: peanut butter, Marmite, marmalade, honey, ham, chicken spread, fish paste and cheese.

  We made a game of it.

  ‘Nice?’ I pointed to the little piece of card on which I’d drawn a smiley face, then to the grumpy one. ‘Or nasty?’

  He pushed the fish paste straight to the nasty side and reached for the cheese. That went down well, so none of it was left to put on either little cartoon. And on he ploughed, industriously tasting, rejecting the Marmite with a look of shock, stuffing the piece of toast with chicken spread into his mouth so fast I wondered where it had gone when I turned back from putting on the kettle.

  We did drinks, too. Milk. Orange. Grapefruit (not a great success). Hot chocolate. Fizzy water. While he was sipping, he took to idly fingering a little silver ring that I was wearing. Up until then, I’d held him, carried him, and even given him a kiss and cuddle when he unnerved himself by tumbling too fast from the slide. But this was the first time he had reached out to touch me, and it was a shock. I had forgotten the gentle, tentative patting of chubby fingers.

  Enough, I told myself. His eyelids drooped. I scooped him off the little booster seat and carried him through to the sofa. How strange it was, after so many years, to hold a sleeping child. At first, I found myself scouring his face, as I’d been doing all the afternoon, for any look of my own son. Soon I was lost in regret. Why hadn’t I had the sense to realize, when Malachy was this age, that just the chance to hold soft limbs and trace a finger over the scabs on a knee is something precious? Back then, a smear of marmalade across a cheek was simply one more thing to be wiped off. Now, all these years later, it was one more chance to run a finger over skin so smooth it could be porcelain. How stupid to have been so very busy all through Malachy’s childhood. The cleaning, cooking, shopping – even going to the park became a chore. Back then, I’d always tip the sleeping child out of my arms into his cot with a great sigh of relief. How many hours had I missed of simple pleasure? Our troubles always come at the wrong time. But so, I realized with a pang, do gifts.

  She wasn’t back until well after seven. I heard the screech of brakes a few yards up the street and, glancing out, saw a small blue car reversing so fast I feared for my own wing mirror. A door swung open and out stumbled Janie Gay, clutching a package and sharing one last laugh with the invisible driver. The car roared off. Janie Gay turned. Her eyes fell on her own house and, like the moment in a pantomime when the clock chimes the last stroke of twelve and, with a flash of light and a puff of smoke, the ballgown changes back to rags and the enchanting princess becomes a kitchen skivvy once again, the contented young girl in front of me turned back into a sour young woman. I watched her plodding up the path as though back into prison and, after the light came on in her kitchen, felt enough sympathy to give her a further hour before I even thought of carrying the faintly snoring Larry down my short path and up hers.

  There she stood, in the doorway, fag in hand. ‘You did all right then?’

  ‘He was fine the whole time. Absolutely fine.’

  ‘I meant with the dungarees.’

  All sympathy drained away, to be replaced by my refreshed contempt for her indifference to her child. ‘Oh, yes. The dungarees.’ I took the chance to plan a few improvements to Larry’s pitiful wardrobe. ‘Well, better than all right, really. There was a two-for-one sale, so I bought one or two things for Larry as well. I’ll bring them round tomorrow.’

  She’d still not put down her cigarette to take her son from my arms, so I stepped in and looked around. ‘Where shall I—?’

  ‘There,’ she said, pointing to the ancient armchair in which, all those months ago, I’d watched him nestling so comfortably on Guy’s lap. I laid him down, and realized from the way she was already reaching for the grubby blanket draped over the back of the chair that – so long as he didn’t slip off on to the floor – it was where he’d be staying till morning.

  That’s when I saw the letter. It was underneath the chair. I’d been through the crematorium gates often enough to recognize their crest on the headed paper. I picked it up and glanced at it just long enoug
h to see that it was yet another reminder that she had still to decide what was to be done with her late husband’s ashes.

  I held it out to her. ‘Need this?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘No, that’s just rubbish.’

  I truly think, if Larry hadn’t been curled in a ball on that soft armchair peacefully lost in sleep, I would have had a go at throttling her. Rubbish? My own son? Certainly I would have pulled her hair out in great handfuls. As it was I kept my temper, casually affecting to crumple the piece of paper as I turned to her bin.

  Keeping my back to her, I tucked the letter away, under my top, and let the bin lid fall.

  ‘Right, then,’ I told her. ‘I’ll be off.’

  I waited, fool enough to think that she might thank me for caring for her son for so many hours. Nothing. But, what the hell? She’d had an afternoon’s free day care and I had snatched the chance to steal my own son’s ashes.

  Too much to ask for manners. Deal enough.

  18

  WHEREVER SHE’D BEEN, she must have had a really good time because I found it easy enough after that day to wheedle my way into their lives. I’d see her tugging at the pushchair and then at Larry – ‘For Christ’s sake! Get in the bloody thing!’ – and snatch up some plant pot, screwdriver or peg basket – any excuse to step out of my own door.

  ‘Want me to watch him?’

  I’d stand and wait as the temptation to be rid of Larry for a few hours battled with her determination never to admit that anyone was doing her a favour. Finally she’d think of some way to twist the offer round. ‘I suppose you want to take him to see that aunt of yours. The one in Pickstone.’

  ‘I probably would, yes, if you don’t mind him being away a while.’

  ‘She really likes him, doesn’t she?’

  ‘She really does.’

  ‘Oh, all right. Since you’re so keen. He’s a bit mucky.’

  ‘I’ll sort him out. There are some clothes of Sandy’s on the ironing board.’

  So off we’d go, to see the mythical aunt who lived in Pickstone. I hung a swing in the arbour. I bought a heap of toys and paints and modelling clay for days it rained. I filled a shelf with big bright picture books. I even introduced him to all my neighbours as my grandson Laurence. I’d feed him a decent meal, then strap him in the car seat I’d pounced on all those months ago, and drive him home. There, with the help of the equally non-existent Sandy and all his ‘outgrown’ clothes, I gradually managed to replace the socks so small they cramped poor Larry’s toes, the underpants that left ribbed rings around his thighs, and the thin nylon jacket in which he’d spent most of the winter shivering.

  I even took him to the crematorium. That was the day I went to fetch the ashes. The wheels had finally turned. I’d carefully flattened the form that Janie Gay had carelessly tossed aside, then ironed the back till it looked good as new. I’d filled in each section, printed my own name and the address in Pickstone inside the space entitled ‘Named Recipient’, then made an excellent stab at forging the indifferent widow’s pitifully childish signature before posting it back.

  Less than a fornight later a letter came from the crematorium reminding me of office hours and warning me I’d need identification to pick up ‘the consignment’. I took Larry with me only because, when I came out of the house on that Saturday morning, I’d seen him forlornly sitting on the step in his pyjamas.

  ‘Mummy not up yet?’

  Larry shook his head.

  I went down my path just to walk up hers and push the back door open. ‘Janie Gay?’

  Nothing.

  I called up the stairs. ‘I’m taking Larry for a little while. Is that all right?’

  Still not a word. I looked around for some clue as to why she was sleeping so soundly but, though the usual clutter lay all round, there were no bottles. Hoping I wasn’t taking too much of a risk with our precarious relationship, I left a note and hurried Larry back next door to dress and feed him.

  Then we were on our way. The only parking space was at the far end of the crematorium grounds. Larry was full of beans, leaping from one flat sunlit plaque set in the grass to the next, and having to be persuaded not to uproot the plastic flowers from their mock marble vases. As we reached the older part of the grounds we both became more sober, Larry cowed into good behaviour by the shadow of the ancient cypresses, and me by thoughts of what I was about to do.

  We turned the corner in the drive and reached the office. I handed over the stamped release form I’d been sent, along with my proof of identity. Promptly the woman vanished, and came back only a couple of minutes later carrying a carton.

  ‘The cask itself is inside this,’ she said, almost too hastily, as if she thought I might immediately begin to complain about the quality of the packaging.

  What did I care? My knees were trembling. All I could think about was getting out of there. I signed my name so shakily I thought she might become suspicious. But no. She gave me one of those deeply professional looks of sympathy, and patted my hand. I wasn’t fooled. I was quite sure she did the same thing half a dozen times a day, almost as part of the package, but still I had to turn away as fast as possible so I could usher Larry to the door before my tears fell.

  I looked at my watch. It was no later than half past ten, and I was shattered. ‘Want to go home?’ I asked Larry.

  He nodded eagerly. ‘Want to go on the swing!’

  There was no swing at Janie Gay’s. He meant the house at Pickstone. On any other day I might have relished this small first proof that, if home is where the heart is, all of my efforts so far had been worthwhile. But with that neatly packaged carton on the passenger seat beside me, I couldn’t help but have another boy far closer to mind. So, buying off Larry’s disappointment with one of the brightly coloured windmills on a stick that were for sale, along with flowers, at the booth at the main gate, I took him back to Limmerton Road.

  Janie Gay met us at the door. Clearly she’d only just woken. With her sleep-softened face and wearing a short shiny nightdress she looked more like an older sister of Larry’s than any mother. Her eyes fell on her son. Maybe because I’d had to push him forward towards her, she thought that I’d come to tell tales. Scraping her fringe back from her eyes, she glared at both of us. ‘What time is it, for heaven’s sake! And what’s the little sod been up to now?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I told her. ‘I think the door banged closed behind him and he didn’t want to wake you up, so he came round to me.’

  She ticked him off for leaving the house in the first place, then made it clear she didn’t want him back by telling me, ‘Well, you can keep him if you want.’

  ‘Actually, today’s not—’

  ‘Otherwise I’m going to have to take him with me.’

  It sounded almost like a threat. ‘Where?’ I asked.

  ‘Just to a friend’s place. But there’s nothing for him to do there. And anyway, this person’s not at all keen on having kids about.’ She glanced at Larry and shrugged. ‘Oh, never mind. I suppose it won’t matter.’ Then, in a tone that made it only too clear that if Larry knew what was best for him, he wouldn’t argue, she said to him, ‘You like Uncle Wilbur, don’t you?’

  Wilbur? How many Wilburs are there in the world?

  I took Larry’s hand again. ‘No, it’s all right. I’ll keep him.’

  On the way back down the path, I thought this might be just the moment to strike a bargain. ‘In fact, do you mind if I keep him overnight? You see my aunt in Pickstone is having a party. And she’d particularly like—’

  I didn’t even need to carry on.

  ‘Whatever! I feel like crap.’

  ‘So I could bring him back tomorrow evening?’

  She was already halfway through closing the door.

  So that’s how it came about that I had one young boy at my side when I went off to tip the ashes of another into the sluggish water of the city canal. I’d thought of going to the sea. But for the life of me I couldn’t think of an
y beach I could associate with Malachy. Some people throw the ashes of the ones they love off clifftops or mountainsides. As far as I could recall, Malachy had never so much as climbed up a steep slope without a litany of complaints. If we’d still lived in Rosslyn Road, I could at least have buried the ashes under the sandpit in which I remembered him spending so many happy, busy hours. But this is not a favour you ask of strangers. And so, the longer I sat companionably on the rug with Larry and ran the few last possibilities through my mind, the more clear it became that there were only two places in the world with which, for the rest of my life, I would associate Malachy and have him always, always come to mind.

  One was the bench on which he’d been sitting the day that the bus to Forth Hill and Danbury came past and swallowed up the two of them.

  The other was the towpath as it ran under the stone bridge.

  The bus stop was out, of course. But the canal?

  Why not?

  Because the rest of the world would be appalled, simply appalled, to think I’d chosen to tip my own son’s ashes into the same dank water in which he’d drowned. And yet, as Larry sat contentedly pounding his little wooden hammer down on the six yellow pegs, then turning the toy to bash them down again from the other side, the thought kept hammering through my mind. That is the place. That’s where, for the rest of my life, I’ll not be able not to think of him. To stand under that stone arch, hearing the drips and feeling the dampness settle on my skin is almost to revive him. Until the day I die, that is the one place that will trigger memories, both good and bad, of my son Malachy. That is the place that will for ever bring back the ghost of my dead child.

  So that was it. I had decided. And since I knew I could not spend the night in the same house as Malachy’s ashes, I had no choice but to get on with things. Now I was glad that Larry would be by my side. He’d be the perfect cover for a canalside walk. What could appear more natural than a small boy and his grandmother under the bridge, bent over the water. If I was spilling something in, it might be the gritty dregs of a goldfish bowl, or some fish dead in a tank. Who would think twice?