The Playground

by Julia Kelly

  She watched as I opened a can of beans, spilling some over the edge as I emptied them into a saucepan and stirred.

  ‘I may not have kids but I know that all children do much better with stability and how much they benefit from regular contact with both parents, even after a split.’

  ‘I’m sorry? What’s that got to do with any of this?’

  She said nothing. I took out two plates, put the waffles on. Poured beans over them.

  I took a carton of apple juice from the fridge, poured it into Addie’s plastic cup. You should really dilute that first, I could hear Joy think, and give it to her with a straw, so much better for her teeth – better still, don’t give it to her at all; water is all she needs.

  ‘That kid needs to see her dad is what I’m saying and, well, I think I should let you know that I’ve made a few calls on Addie’s behalf.’

  ‘Oh God, who did you call?’

  ‘I knew you’d be pissed if I told you but I felt it was my duty as Addie’s friend. I did a little research – Google’s just wonderful, isn’t it? – anyways, I found the agency you thought he’d joined and, well, I just went right ahead and phoned them, but I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news for you.’

  ‘Off you go?’

  ‘He’s moved to their sister agency in Amsterdam. I don’t think he’s coming home, dear heart, to you, or to his precious child.’

  ‘I am well aware that he’s not coming home, that’s hardly news.’ I moved to the kitchen door, closed it over, continued more quietly. ‘And how dare you make that call without telling me?’

  ‘Oh, you’d never have had the balls to do it. Someone’s got to look out for that kid.’

  ‘That’s complete crap!’ I said, accidently showering her with saliva. ‘I’ve accepted that I’m a single mum now and I know I’m doing loads of things wrong, but I am trying my very best, believe me,’ I said, choking with self-pity. ‘And you don’t know the first thing about my relationship with Joe or about being a mother for that matter. It isn’t all about organic quinoa and origami swans. There’s a little more to it than that,’ I said, squirting ketchup on the side of each plate.

  I wanted her to retaliate, instead she just stood there, irritatingly serene, with a slight smile on her face, as if she’d seen all of this coming. She’d placed her hands together in prayer position, legs crossed, and was leaning against the cooker watching, utterly silent, as I put our TV dinner on a tray.

  ‘Mummy!’

  ‘What is it, sweetheart? Just give me a second.’

  ‘But Bubble Guppies is over.’

  ‘OK, I’m coming, darling,’ I said, picking up the tray.

  ‘You know what you need?’ Joy finally spoke. She had given this some thought.

  ‘Go ahead, tell me.’

  ‘You need to do a course in anger management, dear heart. That’s what you need.’

  *

  A car passed on the road outside, sending a shadow sweeping across the sitting room wall, lighting up the little figures on the Indian cabinet. Addie wriggled into her costume, struggling to keep her hat in place with one hand while holding her broomstick with the other.

  ‘I don’t want to blow away up into the sky’ she said as we went down the stairs, counting them the way we always did, her small hand in mine.

  ‘I promise you won’t. I’ll hold your hand very tight.’

  I put on my own witch’s hat at her insistence and we set off together across the road to join Sophie’s party.

  Out on the square, little skeletons, pirates and devils were being hurried through the murk, their costumes and plastic bags rustling. Fireworks were going off somewhere on the seafront; they whistled and rushed, great flashes of colour lighting up the night sky.

  Some of the houses had made a huge effort: candle-lit pumpkins glowed from bay windows, scarecrows and witches hung behind them. ‘Do not enter’ signs and fake cobwebs had been stretched across front doors, tombstones made out of painted-grey polystyrene were positioned in gardens, skeletons hung from bare trees. Other homes looked ghostly enough without embellishment in the damp, foggy night. ‘Dank,’ Joy would have said. ‘The weather in Dublin’s so dank.’ There were no lights on at the drug-dealer’s house on the corner; both of us jumped at the teenagers who were kissing in the darkness in the mass of the leylandii trees outside. Juliette giggled, Dylan apologised and told Addie she was an excellent witch. Kids were running from the old sisters’ house. They were a natural and easy target. Their game was to ring the doorbell and leg it; we saw a grey-haired figure retreat from the first-floor window but couldn’t tell which sister it was. Billy, shifty-eyed under a racoon hat, was playing a more dangerous game; stuffing lit tapers through their letterbox. He’d had it in for Pamela ever since she’d driven her ancient Citroën to the high street knowing that his kitten, later to be christened Diesel, was stuck in its engine. Frank, the youth worker, said he’d come close to punching the old woman on Billy’s behalf; Pamela said cat or no cat, she had to go to the post office to cash her pension cheque.

  A few homes had made no effort at all and were not participating: the glow of a television set in the corner, unseen faces balancing dinners on knees behind curtains, watching the six o’clock news, ignoring the occasion, all knocks on the door.

  We crossed the square and climbed down the steps to the basement of Sophie’s house, cobweb-covered lanterns guiding our way.

  ‘My bum bum’s gone off,’ Addie said, hiding behind me, as we waited for the door to be answered. It wasn’t Sophie but her husband, Mark, who let us in. He looked like he’d been asleep, with his shoes off and his shirt hanging out over his jeans.

  ‘Ah, you’ve just missed them,’ he said, ‘give me a second.’ He padded back into the sitting room. I waved in at the au pair girl, Beatriz, who was sitting forward on the sofa, tidying her hair and tugging at her skirt, as though she were about to pose for a photograph. ‘Hello, Eve! Oh, you look so horrid, Addie!’ she shouted out, not getting up.

  ‘Mama, why has he done his buttons up wrongly?’ Addie asked while he was away. I shushed her but saw for myself as he tucked his shirt into his jeans on his way back to us with a basket. He held it down in front of her, apologising, ‘It’s been fairly ransacked, I’m afraid.’

  Addie took a green lollipop.

  He gave us directions to the big estate that they had all set off to collect around. I listened, thanked him, but knew we wouldn’t be going there. It was Joy who Sophie had invited, not us. Those two seemed to have become great pals lately, as Mum would say.

  On the way home we passed a house whose front door was opened wide: adults and children were streaming in, all in fancy dress, the host, Count Dracula, was beckoning them. Addie wanted to go too. I tried to explain that we didn’t know them, that we wouldn’t be welcome. She seemed to accept this and then was silenced by her lollipop, serious under her witch’s hat. We headed for home, Addie’s cape rustling as she moved beside me, her empty orange bucket swinging in her hand.

  Chapter Twenty

  I woke early that morning to the sound of smashing glass, then a man’s shout from the park, ugly drunk and too near: curse, spit, vomit, the revving of a car, a female shriek. Unable to settle back to sleep, I got up, sat on the toilet and squinted through the blinds at the brick facades of the houses in the estate behind us. Their rooftops were slick with rain, newly planted cherry trees precarious in the wind, the pavements below lit up by the smudgy glow of street lamps. There was a light on in the kitchen of the end house, as there often was in the night. A blurred figure in a pink dressing gown was moving about – another lonely insomniac. A siren sounded from somewhere and I thought about death, sleepily stunned by its inevitability.

  Joy said she’d been planning to tell me anyway. She’d been offered ‘an amazing opportunity to care for two small children in a wonderfully creative family’. ‘I’ll miss that little girl,’ was the last thing she said as she left, ‘Addie fed my heart.’ And Addie mi
ssed Joy. She called her every day on her Peppa Pig plastic phone, told her all her news. One morning I found her peering into the toilet bowl, examining her produce. ‘They look like vege-matarians,’ she said, before I insisted she flush them away.

  I tiptoed down to the kitchen and began preparing for Addie’s fourth birthday party, visualising how it would go as I tidied. I carried the kitchen table into the sitting room and set it, putting a paper plate decorated with balloons, a matching paper cup, a tinsel-rimmed party hat and a carton of Toothkind Ribena on each place. Into candy-striped bowls I emptied packets of Hula Hoops and dinosaur-shaped jellies. I made egg, cheese and cucumber sandwiches, cut off their crusts, sliced them into little triangles and arranged them on two larger plates which I put in the centre of the table, the imprints of my fingers visible on the soft bread.

  I tied three balloons to the front door knocker, all pink, one long, two short, a bit phallic I could hear Joe say, so I went back upstairs to get a forth.

  Then I sat alone in the kitchen, waiting for the kettle to click off. This day last year he’d been standing on the kitchen table in his socks, draping a Happy 3rd Birthday banner across the stained-glass window of the old house, singing along to whiny old Lucinda Williams – cheating and hurting songs, that’s what he called them – blaring from the stereo.

  I shouldn’t have said it; it all went bad when I did. All I’d said was that they were ‘a bit gloomy’ for a kids’ party and could we not have something a little more upbeat. He’d got down from the table, slapped off the stereo, grabbed the CD, charged out of the room and slammed the door behind him. I’d followed him, whining, pleading with him to leave it, saying that I didn’t mind the music after all, but he’d already gone upstairs and was out of earshot and once again, with guests about to arrive, I’d had tears in my eyes and everything was broken.

  I’d climbed the stairs to the top of the house to make peace, trying not to cry because I’d just put mascara on and if I cried my eyes would get small and mean-looking again and the spots on my nose would be there for all to see.

  I’d found him where I thought I would; playing online pool against the virtual fat man.

  ‘Please, Joe, can we not fight?’ I said, ‘Everyone’s about to arrive.’

  ‘Leave me alone. I’m fine.’

  ‘Jesus, all I said was I thought your music was a bit gloomy. I don’t have to like your music.’

  It had been pathetic, he’d known it, I’d known it. I’d forced him to stop his game, to turn around and hug me. He’d stood and he’d done it, but he’d been stiff, angular, his face turned away, still focused on his computer. ‘Sorry,’ he’d mumbled into his chest. His apology had been genuine but I couldn’t resist taking advantage of it and had sulked for the afternoon.

  *

  There was a black ball of snot up Addie’s left nostril that she wouldn’t let me get out. She slotted her own finger up to retrieve it instead – always such a perfect fit, a baby finger in a baby nose. ‘Where are my wishes?’ she asked, adjusting her feather fairy wings which were already moulting on the kitchen floor. I handed her the magic wand and she set off again, casting spells and attempting to fly but stopping to cough, every few moments, her head bent to her knees. I didn’t understand it. I’d hoovered the entire flat the evening before, picked up every single remaining dog hair and still Addie’s chest was wheezy.

  I’d anticipated and planned this party with such determination and in such detail that by the time the doorbell rang, delivering our first scrubbed clean, brushed-hair party guests, at 2.30 p.m., half an hour early, I had used up all my excitement and was now out the other side of it, somewhat exhausted.

  I bent forward, stuffed my hand down my top to perk up my breasts in their double gel push-up bra, fiddled with my hair, sucked in my stomach, grabbed a wet tea towel, smeared it over Addie’s face, lifted her into my arms and trotted downstairs to answer it.

  There was a frozen moment on the doorstep; a couple of seconds where no one said anything. Superman clung to his mother’s leg, having forgotten what it was he was supposed to do. His white hair had been spit-licked into place and he had a scabby rash under his nose. ‘In you go, Ben,’ Sophie said, giving him a little push and stepping over the doorstep behind him. They bundled into the hall with their presents and compliments and coats. ‘Oh, are we too early?’ she asked, seeming to suggest that something about us or the house didn’t look quite ready to receive guests.

  ‘Not at all. So lovely to see you.’

  We embraced, a stiff, self-conscious little collision that felt like we were children just playing at being grown-ups.

  ‘You look fantastic!’

  ‘God, I don’t feel it. But you look amazing!’

  ‘Hello, birthday girl! Don’t you look pretty?’ We flustered and gasped over each other’s offspring. Exclamation marks everywhere.

  She was looking as soft and warm and fertile as she always did. No make-up, freckles sprinkled across her nose, pert bum in slim jeans, trainers, round-neck sweater. I felt like Miss Piggy beside her, my low-cut T-shirt too tight, my make-up too much, my four-inch heels fooling no one. What was Mark thinking of, getting together with that teenager when he had such a sweet and gorgeous wife? I had already decided I wasn’t going to say a thing – it wasn’t my business, it may have been a one-off event, it wasn’t what she would want to hear and I couldn’t be certain about any of it.

  I led them upstairs and into the sitting room, already feeling too tired to entertain. I took their coats, but just as I’d offered Sophie tea, the doorbell rang again and I had to excuse myself, laughing – ‘busy, busy’ – to answer it. Addie cried and ran after me.

  It was Irenka and Charlotte, dressed as a princess. It was the first time I’d seen Irenka upright in ages; she’d been in bed with a slipped disc for weeks. ‘My brain has gone into a “mash”,’ she’d said when I dropped down one morning with some paracetamol and a bar of chocolate. I’d had to let myself in with her spare key; she’d been completely unable to move. It had been strange to see her still and stuffy in bed, surrendered and useless and dependent for a change.

  ‘Oh, have you just been swimming?’ I asked all friendly, bending to rub Charlotte’s wet hair.

  ‘Lice,’ Irenka whispered, ‘they’re everywhere in Bray, just like the rubbish and the rats.’ I pulled my hand away. That would go down great with the other mums.

  Back in the sitting room I didn’t know what to do with my hands, to fold them seemed too severe, too authoritarian for a children’s party. On the hips didn’t feel right either. I needed a drink or a child to hold. I pulled Addie towards me, played with her hair.

  The flat was now full of women and children, all a little expectant, all depending on me. Sophie was lingering in the kitchen still hoping for the cup of tea that she’d said would be great twenty minutes earlier. Someone must have left Sumita and Rashi in. They were leaning against the far corner of the sofa, looking tentative, Rashi wrapped around her mother’s leg. Irenka was standing with a tray full of tinfoil-covered buns, unsure of where to put them. Ben, too hot in his Superman suit, was crying, saying that he wanted to go home. I kind of wished he would.

  The children soon became a little braver, more used to their surroundings, taking tentative steps towards the table, looking up at their mothers for reassurance, picking up, examining and rejecting an offering, then taking another and cautiously eating. Irenka’s banana bran buns were still untouched, aside from one indented with a child’s teeth marks that had been put back. We hovered above them, analysing their behaviour, fixing their hair, complimenting another child’s party dress, fretting, fussing, bending, stretching, holding, carrying, wiping, warning.

  ‘Look at the height of those heels,’ Ruth said, watching me as I tried to pull the cork from a bottle of white wine. ‘For God’s sake. How can you possibly walk in them?’

  ‘They’re actually quite comfortable.’ I said, face burning, without turning around.

/>   ‘Ha! That’s what short people always say.’

  Her little girl, Ruby, was sitting cross-legged on the floor, helping Addie to open her presents, taking vicarious pleasure from ripping the paper. Much cleverer than her four years, Ruby made me nervous: the last time she was in our company, she’d asked Bella if she was growing a moustache.

  I felt a small panic as I realised that the gift they were tearing open, from Irenka, was something Addie had already been given and was calculating how long it might take to dash into the sitting room and somehow conceal the existing present when Ruby, pulling the last bit of paper free from its packaging announced in a loud, self-satisfied voice: ‘Addie already has this.’

  ‘I’ve always actually wanted two of these!’ Addie said, saving the day. ‘It’s dus perfect,’ she’d said at seven that morning about the gift I’d given her: a toy cookery set in a small red-and-white polka dot suitcase. And then, ‘Will you tickle my back?’

  Charlotte was crying because she wanted to wear the Minnie Mouse costume which Addie had been given by Sophie, tears staining her rashy cheeks. And of course I said yes to Irenka who was already hoisting her child onto the kitchen counter top, pulling off her princess dress and squeezing her too-large body into the Disney costume. The kettle was boiling, Ruby was looking for more Wotsits, standing on a chair to reach a cupboard to get them herself, someone else was asking me about where they might find a milk jug and Superman needed to do a number two.

  ‘He feels very hot,’ Sophie said, putting her hand on Ben’s forehead, then hoisting him onto her knee. ‘He’ll only do them at home. He’ll hold on to it now for the afternoon.’ She squeezed him and felt his forehead again. ‘I think he might have a temperature. Poor little lamb.’