by Gil McNeil
I put the kettle on to make tea, and notice that the old fridge Gladys left for us is making weird chuntering noises. But I can always put stuff in the larder if it conks out; it’s freezing in there, with thick stone shelves which remind me of Mrs Bridges and Upstairs, Downstairs. Maybe I’ll learn how to cook mutton and make game pie, and get into making jam and pickles and have all the jars lined up with pretty labels: only to be honest the last time I tried making jam it wouldn’t set, for hours, and then it suddenly set solid like peanut brittle and I had to get it out of the pan by bashing it with the garlic press, so perhaps I’ll just stick to lining up all my packets and jars in there if I ever work out which crate they’re in; so far all I can find are stacks of plates and a collection of old dusters, with the dustpan, but no brush, and a small piece of milk jug.
Our sofas are looking dwarfed in the living room, so it’ll be a case of spacious rather than gracious living, but my bedroom’s going to be great, with no more gaps in the wardrobe where Nick’s things used to be. Actually, with no wardrobe at all, since the old one collapsed when they tried to take it apart to get it down the stairs. There’s a built-in cupboard, though, and I’m going to paint everything violet, or pale pink, and have a white cotton duvet cover without having to worry about Nick spilling coffee all over it while he’s reading the papers. And I’ll get dangly glass lampshades and a bedside table. Nick thought bedside tables were suburban; he liked piles of books and papers with his radio balanced on top, and then he’d lose his alarm clock under the bed, so if he had an early call I’d wake up to the sound of him swearing and rootling about under the bed trying to grab it before it woke the boys up.
God, I wish he was still out there somewhere, spilling coffee all over someone else’s duvet; sometimes I forget, and then it catches me all over again, like pressing on a bruise; duller and less sharp, but much bigger. And because I’m so used to him not being around for weeks at a time, I forget and think I’ll tell him something next time he calls, usually something about the boys, and then I remember.
That’s the thing I hate most of all really, because he might not have been the world’s most devoted father, but he was their dad, and they loved him. I’ve spent so long preserving the lovely Daddy image, buying presents from him and covering up for his lack of even basic knowledge of their latest likes and dislikes, and now he’s not around the myth is even bigger, and I’m stuck with it. For ever. Just like when he used to plan to take them out and then his phone would go and he’d be off to Heathrow and I’d have to step in like some crap courier service trying to deliver on his promises of paternal largesse but always failing to deliver the goods on time. And it’s never going to change now; he’ll always be their lovely Daddy, who they lost. And it’s not bloody fair.
Maybe if I hadn’t given up working things would have been different: it wouldn’t have felt like he was always off somewhere while I stayed at home folding washing and losing touch with him. I’d have been out there, too. I did try working parttime when Jack was little, but the shifts were a nightmare, and I could never count on Nick being around so it was all too complicated. And I hated the way I wasn’t taken seriously any more, like I’d been invisibly demoted just because I’d had a baby, whereas for Nick it wasn’t an issue. That’s the thing about having children; it’s all the invisible stuff that really gets you. And now I’m doing it on my own, which wasn’t how we planned it. Although in lots of ways I was always on my own; Nick would never have considered moving sideways for a while to accommodate the boys. He never remembered who liked their juice in the blue cup or their bedside light left on all night. He’d have been totally screwed if this was the other way round, if it was me that was gone, and him left with the boys. But still, I wish he was out there somewhere, not bloody remembering.
It’s nearly ten by the time George and the boys finally leave, and even though Gran tries to insist she’s fine walking home it’s a long walk up the hill to her bungalow, and it’s pitch black outside, so after a short tussle she relents and lets me drive her back. We have to make a complete circuit of the bloody sea front thanks to the new one-way system, but Jack and Archie are thrilled to be out in the dark and Gran gives us a running commentary on practically everything we pass.
‘Look, that’s Mr Pallfrey, he lives in your road, and he shouldn’t have a big dog like that if he can’t control it – it chased the milkman right down the road last week, you know, and he was ever so upset. He says he’s going to report him if it happens again, and I don’t blame him.’
Mr Pallfrey’s being pulled along at quite a pace by a very large dog. Jack closes his window.
‘Does he bite people, Gran?’
‘Don’t you worry, petal, he’s as soft as anything; he’ll lick you silly if you let him. And that’s the house Lady Denby’s bought, look, that one there.’
We pass a posh-looking house with wrought-iron gates, right at the end of the sea front. Lady Prudence Denby’s our local aristocrat, who dominates all the local committees and is usually accompanied by a couple of labradors and her husband, George, who can never remember anyone’s name and calls everybody Moira. They sold their country estate last year, for a small fortune, to Grace Harrison, the twice-Oscar-nominated, Bafta-winning all-round mega-filmstar, who wanted to return to her Kentish roots, according to the papers, only not the back-streets of Gravesend where she grew up, but a more picturesque version involving a hundred and twenty acres and a Georgian manor house with a lake. The whole town’s been agog ever since.
‘She’s having five new bathrooms, you know, that Grace Harrison, all in marble, and a new sunken bath that’s big enough for six people, although why you’d want a bath that big is a mystery to me – just think of the cost of heating all that water. And Mrs Palmer at the post office says she’ll be moving in when she comes back from America, although how she knows I don’t know, she’s always carrying on like she knows more than everybody else, which is ridiculous because she didn’t know about the pub being sold, did she? I found that out myself, from Betty. Anyway, it seems daft to me, spending all that money on a house and then never living there. More money than sense, some people.’
‘It’s probably a good investment.’
‘Oh, probably, but it’s very selfish, getting everyone all excited and then not even bothering to turn up.’
‘That’s probably not her fault, you know, Gran. It’s the same with Ellen, people just make things up she’s supposed to have said and everyone believes it. And most of it’s complete rubbish.’
‘Yes, but Ellen’s a lovely girl, well, apart from the language. Oh, I meant to say, the new people at the Anchor moved in last week, and she looks foreign to me, lovely dark hair, and he’s a young chef, from London. Looks a bit like that one who swears all the time, that Jamie Gordon.’
‘Gordon Ramsay?’
‘Yes, and who’d want that kind of language in their kitchen, I ask you? I bet his wife’s mortified.’
I bet she isn’t. She’s probably far too busy buying designer outfits and amusing pieces of jewellery.
‘Although I’m sure he could cook you a lovely dinner if you asked him.’
Somehow I can’t see Mr Ramsay popping round to make me supper and battling with the ancient Belling. But I’m pretty sure we’d all learn some new swear words if he did.
‘And they’ve got a little boy who looks the same age as our Jack, and a little girl, Betty told me. The wife was in, getting milk, and you’ll never guess what the girl’s called: Nelly. I thought that one went out of fashion years ago.’
I’m never really sure about people who go in for Special Names for their children, while the rest of us just try to avoid anything that rhymes with willy. I think they’re probably all suffering from some kind of attention-seeking-by-proxy disorder, and I’d bet serious money there isn’t a mother of a Beowulf out there who wouldn’t benefit from a sharp slap on closer acquaintance.
I pull up at Gran’s, and she leans over to give
me a kiss.
‘Now don’t you get out, the boys will get chilly. Are you sure you don’t want me to stay over? It’d be no trouble, you know.’
‘No, Gran, we’re fine, honestly.’
‘Well, you can always ring me, you know, if you get worried or anything. It’s your first night so you’re bound to be feeling nervy, and I can be right over.’
‘Thanks, Gran.’
Honestly, what kind of wimp does she think I am?
‘I’ll pop round first thing and we can make a start on the rest of those crates. Shall I bring some breakfast? I’ve got a nice bit of bacon from the butcher’s.’
‘Lovely.’
She turns to the boys. ‘Be good boys for your mum then and no larking about. Straight into bed, promise?’
They both nod.
The drive back is much quicker, since we don’t have to do the sea-front tour, and we see Mr Pallfrey still battling with his dog as we turn into our street.
‘I need a dog, you know, Mummy, I really do, we should get one, tomorrow. Can we, please? It’d be ever so handy.’
‘How would it be handy, Archie?’
‘I could tell it to bite people if they’re horrible.’
I know without looking that he’s giving his brother a menacing look. Jack’s never been that keen on dogs, let alone ones who’ve been trained by his brother to bite on command.
‘Dogs aren’t allowed to bite people, Archie. Ever.’
He sighs.
As I’m tussling with the front door it starts to drizzle; it’s really dark and I can’t see the key properly. Christ. Just when I’m thinking it can’t get any worse a huge dog races up the path and starts leaping about barking, hotly pursued by Mr Pallfrey, who comes puffing along full of apologies and tries to grab the end of the lead, while Jack cowers behind my legs and Archie screams with delight. Bloody hell. He’s running round and round in circles now, wagging and barking and licking everyone, and having a fabulous time. I think he must be a wolfhound or something because he’s the size of a sodding donkey.
‘I’m so sorry. Trevor, sit!’
Trevor ignores him.
‘You’re Mary Butterworth’s granddaughter, aren’t you?’
‘Yes. We’ve just moved in and I can’t get the key to work. Archie, get up. You’ll get mud all over your coat.’
Jack’s obviously feeling braver now he’s realised Trevor hasn’t actually mauled anybody, and he risks a stroke and the bloody thing goes into another round of leaping and barking. I’m still frantically turning the key round and round and finally the door opens and I switch the light on and everything gets slightly better; more Benny Hill, and less Hound of the bloody Baskervilles.
‘Sit, Trevor. Sit.’
Trevor gives Mr Pallfrey a supercilious look and runs back down the path, hotly pursued by Jack and Archie.
Dear God. So much for a nice quiet bedtime.
Mr Pallfrey looks mortified. ‘I’m ever so sorry.’
‘Don’t worry about it. We love dogs, honestly – Archie was just on at me to get him one.’
‘Well, think long and hard about it, that’s my advice, and don’t get a lurcher, whatever you do, because he’s still growing. He’s my daughter’s, really, she got him as a puppy, lovely little thing he was, but she doesn’t have the room now.’
We look towards the gate where Trevor’s standing silhouetted in the moonlight, looking every inch the obedient canine, while Jack and Archie pat him.
‘Lord knows how big he’ll be when he’s finished.’
He finally manages to grab him and they head for home, waving and barking.
‘There you go, Archie. That’s why we’re not getting a dog.’
Archie looks at me like I’m mad, his face still flushed with excitement. Even Jack’s been converted to the newly launched Canine Campaign.
‘Oh, Mum, please, we could have one just like Trevor, and then they could be friends, and it’d be great, he could come to school with us and be in the playground. And if we didn’t like our packed lunch he could eat it.’
Archie gives his brother an admiring glance. A dog that eats your sandwiches: what a brilliant idea.
After a protracted round of teeth brushing and arguing about dogs, they’re in bed at last, sparked out and asleep, and I’m downstairs trying to unpack the crates in the kitchen. Everywhere I look there’s another crate full of things that should be in another room, or in the bin. And I’ll have to sort out the telly tomorrow, because they both practically went into shock when they discovered there was no Sky, and I think I’m going to need as much back-up as I can get over the next few weeks. I’m unpacking china when Ellen calls.
‘How’s it going, darling?’
‘Great. The rooms are much bigger than I remembered. The boys have unpacked all their trains and the track upstairs, and there’s still a load of space.’
‘God, I loved that film.’
‘What film? Not Thomas the Tragic Tank Engine?’
‘No, The Railway Children, I loved it – still do, in fact, although I always end up sobbing at the end. That bit where Jenny Agutter runs up the platform shouting Daddy! My Daddy! Christ, it gets me every time.’
There’s an awkward silence, and I’m pretty sure we’re both thinking it doesn’t matter how many platforms Jack and Archie run along shouting Daddy! he won’t be appearing out of the mists. Actually I’m starting to feel tired and cold.
‘And the mother was great, too.’
‘Ellen, nobody loves the mother in The Railway Children. It’s all about the kind old gentleman and the dad, or Perks at the station.’
‘Well, I loved her, and when you sell your first ball of wool I’m going to come down and we’ll have iced buns for tea. Deal?’
‘You’re on.’
‘You were right this afternoon. This is just what you all need, a new start by the sea. The boys will love it, and I can come down for detox weekends. It’ll be great.’
‘Promise?’
‘Yes. Now, enough about you, let’s talk about special me. I’ve had another fight with Jimmy.’
Ellen likes to keep a few men on the go at the same time, and it can get pretty confusing, but I think Jimmy’s the one who’s a freelance sound engineer, and a bit of a sulker.
‘He’s on about me helping him get a contract again, but I’m not keen; I mean what if we’ve had a fight and he’s on one of my shifts? I’ll end up sounding like I’m standing in a bucket. Christ, you’d think I’d learn.’
‘Are we talking about Dirty Harry, by any chance?’
‘Yes. Who I saw the other day, by the way, at a drinks thing, looking gorgeous.’
‘Ellen.’
‘I didn’t talk to him.’
‘Ellen.’
‘Well I might have texted him.’
‘So you’re seeing him when?’
‘Next Friday, for a quick drink after work. But only a drink. And then I’m coming down to you for the weekend.’
Harry’s been a bit of a blind spot for Ellen for ages; he’s a brilliant cameraman but pretty wild, and he tends to disappear off on jaunts and come back with all sorts of unexplained bruises and fabulous stories. She just can’t resist him. A bit like me and walnut whips, only much better for your thighs.
‘So we’ll expect you on Sunday afternoon, then, around teatime?’
‘Don’t be like that. I’m going to be firm this time.’
‘Right.’
‘I am. Cool and calm and in control.’
‘Okey-dokey.’
‘But if the cool thing doesn’t work, will Saturday afternoon be all right?’
‘Of course. Vin might be around, too.’
‘Oh, good. Has he stopped doing his Jacques Cousteau thing then?’
Vin’s a marine biologist, and tends to be off counting plankton when he’s not surfing and lounging about with the kind of blonde girlfriends who look good in wetsuits.
‘No, but he’s back while they de-barnacle
the boat or something, so he’s coming down to stay and help me sort the house out. I was thinking we might start this weekend by painting everything white.’
‘Less of the “we”, darling, if you don’t mind. You can do the DIY and I’ll do cocktails.’
‘Yes, but not those pink zombie things like you did last time. I can’t move after one of those, let alone paint ceilings.’
‘That’s because they’re mostly vodka, darling. I’ll do you a PG version. More pink, less zombie.’
‘Perfect.’
By the time I’m in bed it’s nearly one, and I’ve gone right past the totally knackered stage and straight into staring into the darkness. I can’t find my sodding duvet, or any sheets, and I’m too exhausted to look in any more bloody crates so I’m shivering under a motley selection of Archie’s old cot blankets, and Jack’s old duvet cover with the purple stains from a sugar-free-Ribena incident, lying listening to the sea and trying to convince myself that it’s lovely and soothing, and a far superior background noise to the London traffic I’m used to, but it’s not bloody working. The sound of the waves crashing on the rocks down by the pier seems to be getting louder, and I’m getting colder by the minute. Christ. If it’s going to be like this every night I’ll have to buy earplugs. I think I’m having a slow-motion panic attack, wondering if I’ve done the right thing moving us down here, and whether the house will fall down before I’ve had a chance to get rid of that horrible wallpaper in the hall, when I’m suddenly inspired to make a List. Making Lists always makes you feel like you’re in control, so it’s a Top Plan.
Right. Number one, buy gallons of matt emulsion, and rent a sander. Two, get a new hammer because the old one’s got a dodgy handle, and three, find my bloody duvet. And finish Jack’s blanket and sort out a new window display for the shop. Something that doesn’t look like someone’s just chucked a few balls of wool in and then gone home, maybe with a seaside theme, with buckets and spades and shells. I could hang some net up and knit some fish shapes. I’d probably need twenty or thirty, in cotton, maybe, oranges and blues, and maybe some silver ones, too, and I could knit some seaweed in dark green, in chenille or something velvety. Actually I think I may need to be Getting a Grip now, because I’m lying here obsessing about knitting seaweed and it isn’t really helping.
