‘He’s gorgeous,’ says Jo, as I sit down opposite her. Her accent doesn’t sound Glaswegian to my admittedly untrained ear. It’s soft, and lilting and gentle.
‘He is, isn’t he?’ I reply, smiling as best as I can.
‘He’ll be starting school next year, will he?’
‘Yes. The local primary. He can already read some words and write his name, as long as you have a liberal stance on which way round the letter “S” should face.’
‘Well he’ll be off to a flying start then. I teach P1, which is like reception in England, and I can tell he won’t have any problems at all – I bet he’ll be more than ready.’
I grimace as I sip scalding hot coffee, and reply: ‘I hope so. I’m not sure how ready I am, though.’
‘That’s always the way,’ she replies, using a napkin to clear up the coffee I’ve now spilled. ‘The kids come through the gate full of excitement, and the mums are weeping in the playground.’
I nod, unable to think of a single thing to say. It’s like my brain has gone completely blank, and my tongue has superglued itself to the roof of my mouth.
‘This must be weird for you,’ she says eventually.
‘Um … yes. But I think it’s probably weird for everybody, apart from Saul, apparently.’
‘That’ll be down to you, raising a happy and confident little person. Look … it doesn’t have to be weird. I can only imagine how you must be feeling, us turning up, a baby on the way, suddenly part of Saul’s life. All I can say is that we’re genuine – both of us – about wanting to get to know Saul better. You’re his mum, and obviously a good one – but one day before too long, he’ll have a brother, and it would be great for them to know each other.’
I stare at her, my eyes flickering to her stomach against my will. She’s wearing a thick jumper, so I can’t tell if she’s showing or not yet. I remember those days – the combination of excitement and terror. Or maybe, in her case, there is no terror – she’s older than I was, and obviously happy in her marriage, and she teaches kids for a living. Maybe she doesn’t just look like Wonder Woman. Maybe she is Wonder Woman.
‘Yes, it would,’ is all I can manage. ‘It’s a boy?’
Her hand goes to her tummy, and she grins.
‘At least that’s what they think, yes. So thank you – for this. For seeing us. It means the world to Jason, and to me. He told me, you know … what happened between you. All of it.’
For some reason, I cringe as she says this. I don’t know why. I have nothing to be ashamed of, and it’s only natural that he has. Proof that they have a much better functioning relationship than Jason and I ever did. But I still feel somehow exposed – like this woman knowing so much about one of the darkest times in my life makes me somehow vulnerable.
‘Oh. Okay,’ I murmur, still apparently in shut-down mode.
‘And you should know, it changed him. He probably won’t tell you all of this, because he’s a man. But it changed him. He’s not touched a drop of alcohol since that day, and he went to counselling. Still does, every now and then. He hated what he’d done, and that’s probably why he left Bristol. But … well, I’m sure you know that.’
I nod, and avoid her eyes. She has vivid blue eyes that I suspect can see right into my soul.
‘I know. We … brought out the worst in each other. It’s why I moved as well. But you two … you seem to bring out the best in each other.’
She beams at me, and passes me another napkin. I’m really not managing very well with this whole advance level coffee-drinking business at all.
‘We do, I hope. I just wanted you to know that I understand. And that we won’t be putting any pressure on you, or on Saul – we just want to know him. To be part of his life in any way that works for all of us.’
I know she means well. I know she means every word she says. I even know she’s right.
But that still doesn’t take away the fear. The fear that bit by bit, I’m falling to pieces. That all the control I’ve worked so hard for is crumbling. That everything is about to change, and I don’t want it to. That I want to take Saul, and possibly Tinkerbell, and run as far away as we all can.
That, I realise, is ridiculous. It’s an outdated impulse, a knee-jerk response to a perceived threat. Something I need to manage or analyse or possibly just ignore until it goes away.
I nod firmly, and force myself to look up from the napkin-strewn table and meet her eyes.
‘Okay,’ I say simply. One word. A lifetime of meaning.
Chapter 26
I get three calls from Van during the journey home, and I ignore all of them. Then he texts me, asking if I want a lift from the train station in Applechurch. Then I turn my phone off, and slam it into my bag. I can’t face anyone right now – I need some space to process all of this.
The rest of our visit with Jason and Jo passed well enough. Nobody cried, even me. Saul was happy to see them, but happy to say goodbye as well. Jason bought him a giant stuffed toy gorilla from the gift shop, and it takes up its own seat on the train. Saul drifts in and out of sleep all the way home, tired out from all the excitement and walking. He cuddles up on my lap on the bus for the last part of the journey, and is perfectly content to collapse in a heap on the sofa when we finally get home.
He’s watching The Jungle Book, the old cartoon version. The gorilla next to him, Tinkerbell curled in a ball by the toy’s side. The three musketeers.
Once he’s settled, I wander into the kitchen and make myself a cup of tea. It takes a lot longer than it should, due to my impaired mental state. First I put the kettle on to boil without any water in it. Then I put the water in, but forget to switch it on. Then I put both coffee granules and a tea bag in the same mug. Then I add a lovely dollop of mayonnaise to the tea instead of milk. I’m really not feeling like myself.
It’s not that late – just after 8 p.m. – but it’s pitch black outside. The snow is coming down in gentle flurries, and I’m grateful for the warmth and cosiness of our little house. The Christmas tree lights are switched on, a blaze of yellow sparkles, and the sound of the movie fills the house. I’m here. Saul’s here. We’re safe. The bear necessities of life.
I lean back against the kitchen counter, and sip the tea I’ve finally managed to make. I look through to the other room, at Saul with his juice, and the gorilla and the cat, and realise how exhausted I am. Not just by the journey, but by everything.
My parents. Jason and Jo. Van. The trip down memory lane in Bristol. The complications of everybody else’s lives – Lynnie, and Edie, and Laura. Love them as I do, they all add extra layers of mess to my life – a life that used to be much tidier.
It used to be me and Saul. Saul and me. It was straightforward and simple and all very, very manageable. Yes, sometimes I was lonely – but, to use a comparison that would probably fit if I could drive, I was like the only car on a secluded country lane, going at my own pace, never worrying that someone might crash into me if I braked too suddenly.
Now I feel like I’m driving on a crowded multi-lane motorway at rush hour. Everybody seems to want to be part of my life. Everyone seems to want something from me.
Even as I think that, I know it sounds awful. I’ve gained far more than I’ve lost, and usually I like the hustle and bustle of my life here. But right now, when I’m physically and mentally wiped out, it all feels like too much. Too many people. Too many complications. Too many demands. I just need to shut it all down for a while. Get Saul settled in bed, and follow right behind him. Get some sleep. Clear my mind. I’m sure everything will feel different in the morning.
I finish my tea and rinse the cup out in the sink, deciding that there’s no time like the present. So what if I go to bed at 8 p.m.? There’s no one around to judge.
I walk through into the living room, and scratch Tinkerbell behind the ears, making him purr. I scratch the gorilla behind the ears as well, but luckily he doesn’t.
‘Ready for bed, kiddo?’ I say, looking do
wn at Saul. He’s staring at the TV screen as Bagheera and Baloo discuss Mowgli’s future, but his eyes are glassy and tired. He’s basically already asleep, he just doesn’t know it yet.
I can sense an argument coming on, and steel myself for it by putting my hands on my hips – the no-nonsense-mummy stance. He stares at me and rubs his eyes with screwed-up fists, opening his mouth to say no. He doesn’t throw many tantrums, but I can feel this one in the air – mainly because he’s exhausted.
We’re interrupted from escalating our minor disagreement by a knock at the door. I stand there, hands still on my hips, and really want to swear out loud. Saul stares at me, then back at the TV.
‘You’d better answer the door, Mummy,’ he says, grabbing hold of his gorilla and hugging it tight. I have been dismissed, it seems.
The knock comes again, and I roll my eyes in a very mature fashion. Just when I’d really like the whole world to piss right off, it decides to come and visit.
I stomp to the door, trying to get a hold of my bad mood, and swing it open.
Van is outside, leaning against the wall, peering at me as I finally materialise. He’s wearing what looks like nineteen layers of clothing and his beanie, dusted with snow. His breath is gusting into clouds on the cold night air, and he looks freezing. I feel the usual little skitterry-skit when I see him, but even that is overruled by the fact that I don’t want to talk to him. Not that it’s personal – I don’t want to talk to anyone.
‘Hey,’ he says, jamming his hands into the pockets of his body-warmer. ‘You okay? How did today go? I tried calling but I couldn’t get through …’
‘It was fine,’ I say, knowing I should invite him in but not really having the energy to follow through. ‘There was something wrong with my phone.’
He takes in my positioning, the arms I realise I have crossed defensively across my chest, and the fact that I’m not budging, even though I’m letting the cold in. His eye twitches slightly, and his mouth twists into an almost-but-not-quite-amused grin.
‘You’re lying, aren’t you? You never usually lie.’
I sigh, and admit: ‘Yeah. I am. There’s nothing wrong with my phone. Auburn said I needed to start telling fibs so I could be socially acceptable …’
‘Ha!’ he scoffs, looking at me intensely, as though he’s trying to figure out what’s wrong. ‘Auburn is in no position to tell anybody how to be more socially acceptable. And you don’t need to lie to me, Katie.’
‘Don’t I, though?’ I ask, letting out a big breath from all the tension. ‘I wouldn’t have done, not so long ago. But now I’m worried about hurting your feelings, or saying the wrong thing. So here I am. Lying.’
‘Well, stop lying. Tell me the truth.’
‘The truth? Okay. Basically, Van, I’m exhausted. It’s been a big day. It’s been a big month. All I want to do is curl up in a ball in bed on my own and hope tomorrow’s different. I can’t deal with … people right now. Any of them.’
He doesn’t reply for a while, and I see him trying to control what may very well be the first flash of anger I’ve ever seen from him. What can I say? I’ve still got the magic.
He backs off a few steps, and holds his hands up in the air in a gesture of surrender.
‘No problem,’ he says, his voice controlled. ‘I understand. I’m sorry to have crowded you. And don’t worry about hurting my feelings, Katie – I’m a big boy. I can handle it. You get some rest, and I’ll see you soon.’
He doesn’t give me the chance to reply, just turns on his heel and jogs over the road to his parked truck.
I feel terrible, as soon as he walks away, and know I should shout him back. Apologise. Explain. Invite him in. I try to, I really do – but all that comes out of my mouth is a whisper, his name murmured so quietly that even I can’t hear it. I go back inside and close the door behind me, leaning back against it and shaking my head.
I listen to the sound of his engine starting up, and hear a slight squeal of tyres as he pulls away a lot faster than he usually does. Shit. I’ve been a complete cow to someone who really didn’t deserve it.
I go back to the kitchen and get my phone out of my bag. I decide I’ll bite the bullet and text him right away. Say I’m sorry and offer to meet him for a drink tomorrow after work. I really do need a night on my own – but there are far nicer ways of saying it. It’s not like he wouldn’t have understood – I just snapped at him without giving him the chance to.
All the fight’s gone out of Saul now, and he’s lying limp and splayed across the sofa, one hand caressing the gorilla’s furry head as he tries to stay awake. I watch him, my precious little boy, as I wait for my phone to switch back on.
When it does, I see that I have three new text messages. I’m ashamed of the way I behaved with Van, and don’t want to read anything that’s going to make me feel even worse.
I’m about to start tapping away on the keys when there’s another knock at the door. I sigh and put the phone down. Maybe he’s come back, I think. Maybe he’s so annoyed with me, he’s come to give me a piece of his mind. Maybe we’ll end up screaming at each other on the doorstep – fast forwarding right past the honeymoon stage and into more familiar relationship territory. For me, at least.
Wearily, I trudge back through the living room and into the hallway. I take a deep breath, and open the door.
Waiting outside, complete with an uncharacteristic suntan and wearing a weird shirt with a mandarin collar, is my dad.
‘Hi, love,’ he says, sounding pretty exhausted himself. ‘I’ve been doing some thinking, and I’ve decided you’re right. I need to sort this out. Is your mother in?’
Chapter 27
‘No, she’s not … come in, Dad. But be quiet, Saul’s just gone to sleep and I’m going to try and put him down for the night.’
I feel exhausted in every way possible. If I have a tether, I think I’ve just reached the end of it. I tiptoe into the living room, and manage to hoist Saul up into my arms without really waking him.
It always amazes me how kids can sleep through things – when we were potty training, I used to be able to do the same late at night; I’d hold him on the loo on his special make-the-seat-smaller device, and he’d do his business, all the while his head lolling and his eyes closed.
I do the same tonight, before carrying him through to my bed. Looks like I’ve got a guest for the evening, and Saul is back to sleepovers.
I tuck him under the covers, and pause for a minute, stroking back his hair and giving his smooth forehead a kiss. He looks so peaceful when he’s asleep, and I feel a wave of love wash over me. This, I remind myself, is what life is all about – the purity of the way this little person makes me feel. All the rest of the complications can bugger off.
I call into the bathroom to splash cold water on my face in an attempt to wake myself up, and go back downstairs with as much of a smile as I can muster.
I find Dad in the kitchen, making tea, looking weirdly exotic with his trendy shirt and his tan.
‘Want a cuppa, love?’ he asks, holding up a mug and waving it at me. I nod, and get the milk out of the fridge for him.
‘What’s with the new look, Dad?’ I ask, watching as he stirs the tea bag. He likes his tea strong, my dad, and always spends a good minute pressing the tea bag against the side of the cup with a spoon until every last drop of flavour’s been squeezed out.
‘Oh … you mean the shirt? It was a gift from Miguel, who was leading our course. We all got them, in different colours. To match our auras.’
He at least has the good grace to look a bit embarrassed by that last sentence, which makes me laugh. They’re at this weird stage in their lives, my parents – both of them changing; like they’re starting to emerge from cocoons as different people.
‘What’s your aura like, then?’ I ask, taking the tea he offers and gesturing for him to follow me through to the living room.
He glances down at the shirt and replies: ‘Apparently, it’s turquoise.
’
I gaze at the sofa with something approaching adoration, put my tea on the table, and immediately collapse down onto its lovely squishy softness. I’m next to the gorilla, and remind myself to take it upstairs when I finally get to bed – maybe Saul can practise Beauty Parlour on it in the morning. Tinkerbell has disappeared off somewhere, which he tends to do when he meets new people – he’s probably watching us from a corner, doing a feline risk assessment.
Dad sits in the armchair, and we’re both silent for a moment. I’m too tired to start a conversation, and he doesn’t look too perky himself.
‘I did text you, honest. I dropped my stuff at home and drove straight down,’ he says eventually. ‘Were you there? While I was gone?’
‘Yeah, I stayed there last night,’ I reply, wondering how he knew.
‘Right. Makes sense. Saul left me a picture on the fridge door – looked like a penguin, but could have been a panda. Maybe in space, there were stars all around it.’
‘That sounds about right – he’s currently obsessed with both animals and becoming an astronaut. We were … there because we met Jason. And his wife, Jo. She’s having a baby.’
Dad leans forward in the chair, and looks me over, as though checking for damage.
‘How was that? Was it all right?’ he asks. He sounds genuinely concerned, and for a moment I let myself bask in it. No matter what problems I had growing up, he’s still my dad – and every now and then, it’s nice to still feel like a little girl.
‘It was fine. Nice for Saul. Jason seems good. He’s given up booze, sees a therapist – right up your street, Dad. Jo’s lovely too. Everyone was on their very best behaviour. I’m just … well, I’m secretly glad they live so far away. Probably makes me a terrible person, doesn’t it?’
‘Course not, love. It’s completely natural. You’ve done a great job with Saul on your own – better than me and your mum did together. I know you’ll always do what’s right for him.’
I nod, and hope he’s right. I’m feeling a bit off kilter tonight, and don’t trust myself quite as much as I should. I was mean to Van, and that’s still bothering me.
A Gift from the Comfort Food Café Page 22
