by Tina Seskis
Eleanor took another long look out of the window, watched the clouds fizzing away, as if on time lapse, the blue breaking through. When the sun finally burst out and the whole world sparkled, apparently cleansed of every trace of dirt and deceit and disappointment, she made her decision.
‘OK, kids!’ she said. ‘Who’s up for a trip to the park?’
‘Me, me, ME!’ yelled Barney.
‘Meeeeeeee!’ said Jessica.
‘OK, gumboots on, get your raincoats. Just in case.’
‘It’s wellies, Ellie,’ said Jessica, and then she laughed and started yelling, ‘Wellies Ellie, wellies Ellie, wellies Ellie!’ over and over. Barney got his boots and held one upside down on his head as he ran around, pretending to be a submarine. When Eleanor had finally calmed them down, and sorted out spare clothes and snacks, the skies were already greying over again, but she decided to risk it. After all, it was only rain. So what if they did get a little wet?
‘Come on, sweeties,’ she said. ‘Hats on.’ She opened the door and ushered them out through the front garden and on to the street, and she thought they looked like two little fishermen, in their gumboots and yellow raincoats and hats, and it was in that moment she realised that this wasn’t just a job any more. It was so much more than that. The twins were adorable, and they loved her, and she loved them, and it was unconditional, utterly genuine – and she would never ever do anything to risk losing that. She was sure of it.
13
PAUL
Paul’s life had returned to just about as normal as any new father’s can be, but Christie still seemed shattered by motherhood. She seemed so closed in somehow, as if the girl he’d known for years didn’t exist any more, and it made him doubt himself, doubt how she truly felt about him. After all, he hadn’t been her first love. Her first love had been a posh boy from university, not some sales rep from Manchester with a Happy Mondays obsession. Her first love had broken her heart. In fact, he, Paul, had been the one who’d helped pick up the pieces.
Paul sighed as he made himself a coffee in the drab, functional little kitchen attached to the back of his offices, which looked out on to a bin-filled cobbled alleyway. It was risible that he worked for a multinational company, with shiny head offices in central London and New Jersey, but that their Manchester office was such a dump. Someone had slopped a teabag all over the floor and it annoyed him that other people could be so slovenly. But as he cleaned up, he knew that wasn’t really the issue. The issue was Christie. He’d done his best – having managed to combine all his holiday to take four weeks off work to help out, just about managing to balance convincing his boss that it was necessary with not letting on that there was any kind of problem at home. Paul had spent those weeks shopping and cooking, and putting on sack-loads of laundry, and doing everything possible to make life easier for his wife. The one thing he hadn’t been able to do, of course, was the actual feeding, but he’d been a committed wingman. And so every single time his infant daughter had finished on the breast, he’d taken her from Christie and walked her around and around the house, rubbing her little back as she wailed in fury, before finally, cathartically, throwing up all over his shoulder by way of a thank you. Next, he’d proceeded to clean Daisy up, change her nappy, before handing her, quiet and happy and sweet-smelling once more, back to Christie – just in time for them to go through the whole saga all over again. It seemed extraordinary, but somehow there had never been a single spare minute in the day, but Paul hadn’t minded. In a way he’d revelled in the responsibility, in that he’d started to feel closer to Christie again. That she’d needed him. For a little while he’d even thought that everything would be OK.
Paul took his coffee and headed back to his desk, ignoring his colleague Alan, who was on the phone, talking too loudly as usual. Paul assumed Alan wanted everyone to hear his conversations, as if he believed his wrangling over the price of package deliveries was the most important thing in the world. Sometimes he wished he shared Alan’s passion for parcels, or Christie’s for her job for that matter, having combined an encyclopaedic knowledge of medieval history with a love of teaching to prove a formidable force for good. Paul was sure his wife could have ended up running a top school in London, and suddenly he wondered if she ever regretted settling back in Manchester. Was Manchester second best for her? Was he second best for her? Is that what the real problem was? Nothing to do with their new baby at all?
Paul sat down, half-heartedly opened the weekly marketing pack . . . but despite his attempts to concentrate, his thoughts remained firmly on his and Christie’s domestic predicament. Even when Alan finally stopped talking and hung up, there was no respite from the noise inside Paul’s head. He could still hear the effects of Daisy’s colic, as if the screaming was imprinted in his ears, ready to invade every brief moment of silence. He could still hear Christie crying. Last night had been one of the worst yet, with Daisy inconsolable, and Christie distraught and in obvious agony, not knowing how to keep the baby latched on, and Paul had lain next to his wife, feeling stressed and desperate, fully aware that his normal strategy of using humour to diffuse situations would only make things worse.
The phone on his desk rang, so loudly it almost jumped, chattering, into the air like a Tom-and-Jerry phone.
‘Hello, Paul Ingram,’ he said.
‘Hi, Paul.’ Her voice had that raspy quality to it, as if she had a cold. He’d always found it attractive.
‘Oh, hello.’ He tried to keep the note of surprise out of his tone.
‘Look, Paul, I’m sorry.’
He paused. ‘What for?’
‘For being so stubborn.’
Paul wasn’t sure what to say. He wasn’t certain what she was talking about, but he felt that it was an opening, and that he shouldn’t blow it.
‘Christie, love.’ He spoke softly. ‘You have nothing to apologise for.’
‘I have. I’m a lousy mother.’
Even as Paul muttered horrified platitudes, aware that Alan was listening (although doing his best to pretend not to), he acknowledged at last that perhaps there was something seriously wrong. Before this, he’d tried to put her behaviour down to the baby blues, and overtiredness, and Daisy’s colic, and the more she seemed to struggle, so did he – but of course he couldn’t admit to that. Christie had enough on her plate.
And yet now Paul was worried that things had gone too far. Last night she’d finally snapped, and it had been scary to witness her jumping out of bed and almost chucking the baby at him, telling him that he could fucking deal with it, before storming out of the room. He’d got up instantly and taken his hysterical daughter downstairs to try to placate her. And then once he’d managed to finally settle her enough to put her back in her cot, he’d found Christie locked in the bathroom, crying. He’d knocked quietly and tried to ask her what was wrong, but when she came out she’d just rebuffed him, got into bed and turned her back on him, and he’d lain awake for the rest of the night, wondering what the hell was the matter with her. He just didn’t know how to support his wife, and it seemed that his practical, pragmatic approach was making things worse, not better. It didn’t help that he was about to leave for a two-day sales conference that he was presenting at and needed to be on form for. It was in a hotel in Cheshire, and although normally he would have hated the thought of leaving her, secretly he was looking forward to at least getting a decent sleep for once.
After Christie rang off, Paul stood up and walked back across the office, past Alan, who was chewing grimly on a cheese baguette now, past the dark ominous stain where Greg from Purchasing had thrown up after last year’s Christmas party, past the solitary, leaf-challenged pot plant that no one ever watered. Despite being on his fourth coffee, Paul still felt so wiped out he leant back against the kitchen units, his palms on his forehead. The kettle took forever to boil, allowing him too long with his thoughts. But perhaps leaving Daisy and Christie alone for the night might even be good for them, he told himself optimistically,
as the furred-up kettle limped to an apathetic sputter at last. Maybe it would even make him feel better too – enable him to have a few drinks, let his hair down for a bit. Yes, Paul decided, as he slopped some milk into his coffee, surely a break would be good for all of them.
14
ELEANOR
‘I want to go home, Ellie,’ Jessica said. They’d left for the park just half an hour earlier, but now they were hurrying home along the main road, and Jessica’s voice was trembling and her little lip was quivering, and Eleanor felt terrible that she’d so badly misjudged the situation. The twins still weren’t well – what in hell had she been thinking, taking them out in this weather? No sooner had they reached the park than the clouds had turned from a bright translucence to an ugly dark violet and it had started to rain, the drops huge and splashy and relentless. And then when the lightning had flashed, swiftly followed by tree-snapping cracks of thunder, Barney had become hysterical and it had been impossible to placate him. Now, Eleanor was doing her best to carry him on her hip while walking along holding poor Jessica’s hand, and the fact that the little girl was being so brave only made Eleanor feel worse. She needed to get them home.
An old white saloon car, clearly rusting at the edges, slowed down beside her and honked, and the sound was almost comedic in its ineffectiveness. She briefly looked across at the unknown driver, and then shook her head and turned away.
The driver wound down the window. ‘D’you want a lift?’ he yelled over the machine-gun noise of rain on metal.
‘Er, no, we’re good, thanks,’ said Eleanor, as rivers of water ran through her straggling hair. She knew better than to put herself and the twins into a stranger’s car, no matter how horrendous the weather. She put her head down and carried on walking.
The car followed alongside her now, and she began to feel a little alarmed. She tried to speed up, but poor Jessica couldn’t go any faster, and of course they wouldn’t be able to outrun the car anyway.
‘Eleanor, it’s OK,’ he said. ‘It’s me.’
Eleanor turned sharply and stared him down. How did he know her name?
Of course. It was the young guy from next door. What was his name? She couldn’t remember now. He still had that odd way of looking at her, the peculiar air of gaucheness.
‘Oh, jeez, I’m sorry,’ she said through the open window. ‘I didn’t recognise you.’
‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘I’ll give you a lift home if you like.’
‘Uhh . . . thanks,’ said Eleanor, but as she helped the children into the car and strapped them in, she still felt uneasy. There were no child seats for a start, and the twins were so little. When her rescuer moved off, albeit suitably slowly, Eleanor sat between Barney and Jessica, hugging them anxiously to her. Barney was still upset, but the rain pelting the windscreen and the thud-thud of the wipers were combining to drown out his sobs. The inside of the car smelled musty and faintly of weed, and the carpet was squelchy underfoot. Eleanor felt trapped now, and anxious, and she was worried about what Lizzie and Oliver would think. Which was worse? Letting the twins get soaked through when they still weren’t entirely well, or putting them into an almost-stranger’s recreational-drug-fumed car without child seats? Which transgression was she more likely to get fired for?
As the car turned off the main road at a run-down corner house with a crumbling turret, Eleanor didn’t recognise the route, and she worried that her would-be saviour was going the wrong way, might even be about to abduct them. Her mouth felt dry, and she longed for the words to come, but she didn’t want to risk annoying him. There was something about him that she didn’t like. He was wearing a black bomber jacket covered in badges, and she wasn’t sure whether it was meant to be fashionable or not. It was hard to tell. The car was picking up speed now, and Eleanor gripped the twins’ arms tightly, in case they crashed.
‘Ow, Ellie, that hurts,’ Jessica said, and her little voice was so full of confusion that, as Eleanor apologised, she could hear her own voice cracking. Another bolt of lightning tore across the sky, but even Barney seemed to sense that he should keep quiet now. Eleanor clamped her teeth together, to stop herself from saying anything, and tried to calm the breath hovering in her throat.
Possibly sensing her distress, her neighbour looked over his shoulder then, and his eyes had a strange, ambivalent gleam to them that she hadn’t noticed before, and he seemed less shy now. He gave her an odd, pinched little smile.
‘Nearly there,’ he said.
15
PAUL
‘Have you got everything you need, Christie?’ Paul said the next morning, for the umpteenth time. His overnight case had been packed and zipped up decisively and he was now standing next to it in the hallway, wearing his smartest black suit, swaying from side to side in his shiny leather shoes, hopefully imperceptibly. He felt as if he were walking on burning rubber. The impulse to leave was stronger than his desire to stay, and it was discomfiting. He never used to feel like he couldn’t wait to get away from his wife.
‘Well, I think we’ll just about survive,’ Christie said, a placid Daisy in her arms – and then she smiled, presumably to show she was joking, and it was a relief to see. She often seemed so brittle these days, as if humour had deserted her, and he’d even been wondering if he should suggest she go to the doctor’s, although he was unsure how she would take it. He heard her voice adopt a self-consciously casual tone. ‘Alice said she’d pop by later.’
‘Oh, that’s good,’ Paul said, but it made him feel even more uneasy. If anyone got Christie fired up it was her sister. Alice might be well meaning, but she was mad as a stick in Paul’s opinion, although his wife never saw it. Alice was her darling baby sister in Christie’s eyes. They might fall out occasionally, but they were as close as siblings could be. The thought made Paul briefly sad about his own brother, who he hadn’t seen for so many years. Maybe he should think about looking him up one day, tell him he was an uncle.
‘Well, I’ll see you tomorrow night then,’ Paul said at last, and went in for a kiss, but at the very last moment Christie turned away, so he was presented with her cool smooth cheek. The rejection stabbed at him. And yet, instead of showing her how he felt, he bent and belly-kissed Daisy, making a loud continuous flatulent sound, causing the baby to coo and wave her arms about, and it was so nice to see her smiling for a change. Once Daisy was sated Paul stood up straight and said, as casually as he could, ‘Well, bye then, pet,’ and then he walked out of the door, feeling as if Christie couldn’t wait for him to go – and, surely worse, that he couldn’t wait to leave either.
16
ELEANOR
‘Look, I’m sorry, but where in hell are you taking us?’
Eleanor gasped and clapped her hand to her mouth. She’d blurted out the question almost involuntarily – just a mere nanosecond before she realised they’d turned into the far end of their street, instead of coming the way she knew.
‘Gosh, sorry,’ she said. As her neighbour wordlessly parked up outside the house, she was so embarrassed she did her best to recover the situation.
‘Well, thanks so much for rescuing us,’ she said brightly as she leaned over Barney, opened the car door and almost bundled him and Jessica out of the car. The rain had eased off a little, but the twins were sodden, although hopefully it was nothing a brisk towelling off and a change of clothes couldn’t fix. She tried again to atone for her lack of trust in her neighbour and gave him her best smile. ‘Thanks again. I knew I shouldn’t have risked taking them out in this weather.’
‘That’s all right,’ he said, locking the car and coming round to her side. Instinctively Eleanor pulled up the hood of her jacket, although it wasn’t raining at all now and she was soaking wet anyway, and then she bent down and helped Barney, whose left gumboot had half come off. But instead of the boot going back on, the little boy managed to hop straight out of it and into a puddle in just his sock, making him gurgle with laughter. She remained crouching on the sidewalk for
longer than she needed to, but when she glanced up again, her neighbour was still standing there, hovering above her, looking weirdly expectant. The Davenports’ immaculately trimmed privet hedge rose up behind him, and it reminded her of a green screen from the movies, and she pictured it magically transforming into a majestic ravine, and she had a sudden urge to leap up and shove him, hard, over the edge of it. She gulped, stood up at last, and took Jessica’s icy little hand.
‘Well, I guess I’d better be getting the twins in . . .’ Eleanor paused. ‘Gee, sorry, what was your name again?’
‘It’s Gavin!’ said Barney, his spirits fully recovered now, before Gavin had time to reply himself.
‘Well, thanks again, Gavin,’ Eleanor said. She held out her hand and it was wet and cold, but Gavin’s was wetter and colder. Slippery almost. Slack. ‘I sure do owe you.’ She smiled again, and so did he, and despite her stress she couldn’t help but acknowledge that British dentistry was not a patch on America’s.
