Single Mother on the Verge

by Maria Roberts

  It’s Jack’s birthday today. He is nine. I’m skint. Last month the mortgage wasn’t paid, and some of the cheques for the bills bounced. This month I need to pay out twice the amount of money. Some of my freelance projects have come to an abrupt end. I have to find more work, which means toiling for longer hours, which means Jack and Rhodri will be even more despairing with me. Today as I scrub and clean the house with some sort of vegetable derivative in preparation for Jack’s party, I’m once again plotting how to put my top-secret business idea into action. I’m also wondering if I should file for bankruptcy and live in the car. If I did, all this would end. I want to drop into a coma. If I were in a coma, someone else would handle my worries. Then I could wake up and start my life over again.

  Is it so wrong for me to want nice things for Jack? I didn’t drag myself through university to exist like this. Someone somewhere in government promised me a graduate lifestyle with a professional income. Toga may be a metrosexual and spend more time in front of the mirror than I do, but he has a career, he is solvent, and therefore not an altogether appalling father figure for Jack.

  By evening thoughts of Toga have been cast aside and Rhodri and I are putting on an Oscar-winning show of togetherness. Despite our squabbles, splintered lives and fractious relationship, he and I are gallant and loving when in company. We snuggle close to one another on the sofa and watch Jack regale the party with endless impressions of me dancing and talking.

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ Rhodri mimics me to my mother, which starts him laughing and snorting. Then Jack mimics how Rhodri runs, and I mimic Jack. It’s a funny old hootenanny. A couple of glasses of wine later, I threaten a rendition of the Welsh saucepan song and Rhodri threatens to sing the Welsh national anthem.

  Last year we had a free party for Jack and his friends at a family funday arranged by a theatre in Manchester. This year we’re having a simple get-together at our house. Right now our family is packed into our tiny living room, lined up on chairs like passengers at the back of a bus. I’ve bought Jack a digital camera. It wasn’t an expensive one, but I’m sure he’ll love it.

  Well, that is until he opens his present from Margaret No. 2, a computer, and then his present from my mother and Rufus, a Motorola Razr mobile phone. Rhodri, who has been thoroughly helpful all evening, handing out food, drink, tea, coffee, biscuits, and joking along in his lovable way, gives me a look, which I translate as ‘We’ll talk about this later.’

  Now there are more mobile phones and computers in our house than there are people. I could start an empire to rival eBay and sell off all the cast-offs we’ve accumulated from strangers’ skips.

  Margaret is the last to leave. She stalls in the doorway to rifle through her bag, then pulls out a card. ‘For Jack, from Damien. I didn’t want to hand it to him earlier in case it upset him. I don’t know what you want to do with it.’ She tells me that Damien is just out of prison and is staying with her for a few weeks until he gets a job, so we mustn’t call round to her house. She says that he has asked if I will meet him to talk about his having contact with Jack. She has seen him playing with his other son, and she really thinks he’s trying to be a good dad. But the answer is no: it doesn’t seem to me that Damien has changed. Maybe I’ll regret this decision in the future, but right now it seems the best thing to do.

  ‘I’ll have to give the card to Jack,’ I say. ‘I can’t not.’

  When all the guests have left, with party cake wrapped in tissue, and we’ve cleared the room, I go upstairs to see if Jack has fallen asleep. ‘Jack,’ I whisper. ‘Jack?’

  ‘Hello, Mummy. Get into bed with me. Give me a hug.’

  ‘Have you had a good day?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ He hooks his arms around me, pulling me down until I’m lying next to him.

  ‘I have something for you,’ I say, taking the bright yellow envelope from my pocket. ‘I think it’s from your dad.’

  Jack sits up, takes it from me and tears it open quickly. Three ten-pound notes fall onto his lap. He doesn’t pick them up. He reads the message:

  Happy Birthday, Son

  Here is my telephone number, call me when you want.

  Love Daddy

  xxx

  ‘Can I call him?’ asks Jack. ‘Can I call him? He’s given me his number… Mum, can I call him now?’ He’s already leaping out from beneath his duvet.

  ‘Calm down, Jack. Not now. Let me take the card and put it up for you on the bookshelf with the others.’

  Reluctantly he hands it to me. ‘Can I call him tomorrow?’

  ‘I’ll have to think about that. Can we talk about it in the morning?’

  ‘Okay,’ says Jack, turning away from me and kneading his head into the pillow.

  ‘Good night, darling.’

  ‘Night,’ he says darkly.

  ‘So what are you going to do?’ asks Rhodri, one arm slung heavily over my shoulders as I lean into him on the sofa.

  ‘Damien shouldn’t have written his telephone number in there. He’s put me in a very difficult position.’

  ‘Are you going to let Jack call him?’

  I stand up and slot the card between some books on the shelves. ‘I just can’t,’ I say to Rhodri. ‘I’ll explain to Jack.’

  ‘I think you’re doing the right thing.’

  ‘He was in prison. How do I know that won’t happen again? Jack will meet him only to lose him.’

  The following morning Jack chatters all the way to school about the card.

  I say, ‘We’ll discuss it tonight.’

  ‘And you know where it is?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I return home to enter into a debate with Rhodri about the Motorola mobile phone. ‘Jack should not use a mobile phone. He’s too young and it will damage his ears.’

  ‘Well, what am I supposed to do? Take that away from him too?’

  ‘Yes. For his health. You specifically said, “No mobile phone,” and they bought him a mobile phone. It’s not just dangerous for his health, he might get mugged. He’s got a better mobile phone than you. Tell your mother to take it back.’

  ‘Rhodri, I can’t argue with the whole world.’ Some battles you just have to lose. That’s my opinion. Sometimes it’s better to accept defeat before you even begin.

  ‘I cannot agree to Jack having a mobile phone.’

  When Rhodri makes a point, there’s no shifting him.

  ‘Okay,’ I relent. Because I think he’s right. We specifically said, ‘No mobile phone for Jack.’ So Rhodri places the mobile phone still in its unopened box at the top of the bookshelves out of sight.

  When Jack is doing his homework he asks, ‘Where’s the card? Where’s the mobile phone?’

  I explain that, because I love him, I’ve had to make some tough decisions.

  He says, ‘Yesterday I had the best birthday ever. Today it’s the worst birthday ever,’ then stomps up the stairs, slamming his bedroom door behind him.

  He sulks for hours. I enter his room, he ignores me and continues to watch television. I switch the television off. He scowls at me. ‘Jack,’ I begin. ‘Don’t be angry with me for protecting you, please. Nothing’s changed, has it? I said no to a mobile phone, I said no to your dad. I’m afraid they’re both still a no. I’m not going to change my mind. I’m sorry.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ he says. ‘Okay.’

  ‘All right?’

  ‘Yes,’ he relents, ‘all right.’

  And, thankfully, that seems to be the end of it.

  September passes and October arrives. It’s like harvest festival in our house. I should invest in a smock and a harmonica. Pumpkins, knobbly green squashes and bunches of garlic clutter the kitchen worktops and windowsill. I have scoured recipe books for soup and stew ideas, and catalogues for storage solutions. Despite his insistence that he’ll visit soon, Toga is yet to arrive in Manchester to ‘talk’. I really don’t see why we can’t ‘talk’ on the telephone. He must want to talk to me about serious stuff…
like a marriage proposal.

  Unusually, my father has temporarily been hit with the generosity stick: he has invited us out for a Sunday meal with Eleanor and her son Luke. It’s Eleanor’s birthday so the extravagance starts now. One year my father bought her a toolkit, and the next, an anorak. Perhaps this year he’ll really push the boat out and buy her a cordless drill.

  I’m surprised my father has offered to pay because on a weekly basis he sets himself a challenge. ‘Look,’ he’ll say on a Sunday evening, opening his wallet and showing me the contents, ‘I have one ten-pound note in my wallet and I’m going to keep it there until next Sunday. Just you see.’

  To which my exasperated stepmother, Eleanor, says, ‘Yes, but you’ll just spend my money instead, won’t you, Trevor? Won’t you?’

  Rhodri has gone off to a squat party in Liverpool. He said he’d be home for the meal, but it’s gone two o’clock and he still isn’t back yet.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say to Eleanor, ‘I don’t know where he is and I can’t call him to find out. We should order.’

  She tilts her head sympathetically and smiles. ‘It doesn’t matter. Just the five of us, then. What are you having, Jack?’

  We leave the restaurant at around four. Jack seems tired so I send him to bed for a quick nap – he hasn’t had an afternoon snooze since he was a toddler. Rhodri called half an hour ago to say that he’s waiting for someone to give him a lift to Manchester from Liverpool. I’m furious with him for letting me down so spectacularly.

  It’s just after Rhodri gets home that Jack begins sobbing. Over the past few weeks his night terrors have escalated. I barely drop off to sleep before he’s shouting for me. He dreams about something attacking me, or the world ending. Right now he’s sitting upright in bed shrieking with terror and staring at me as if I’m covered with wasps. I sit next to him holding his hand, which is cold and clammy. I try to make him laugh. He stares at my face, screaming and shouting. When he looks out of the window he says he can see white balls falling from the sky destroying the earth. I ask him to draw me a picture, which he does, but then he drops the pencil and again begins to cry. I give him a spoon of Calpol and hope it will work, but it doesn’t. Almost an hour later Jack’s breathing has become panicked.

  I call NHS Direct, and on their advice we rush Jack to the out-of-hours doctor, then to the hospital. By the time we arrive at A and E, Jack is hallucinating and verging on delirium. We stay the night. Blood tests are carried out. The next morning a young doctor declares Jack a healthy boy and we are discharged, but he is to have a brain scan. A letter will follow, with the appointment.

  I’m worried that all this talk of the planet ending, not to mention the memories of Damien, are causing Jack’s nightmares. If they are, then something is going to have to change – and fast.

  25

  Despite our rapprochement since Jack’s birthday, Rhodri and I still aren’t on loving terms. We have moments when we’re tender with each other, but they’re becoming rare. Maybe I am paranoid, but Rhodri is grumpy. And he’s been acting suspiciously this past month. He’s always checking his email account, has started taking unexpected walks in the evening, and is generally very distracted. I have a strong feeling that he’s keeping something from me. Maybe he had a summer romance at the camp. If he did, then I’m surprised he hasn’t mentioned it because Rhodri is a completely honest person. He wouldn’t see the value of keeping quiet about something like a fleeting infidelity.

  A few months ago he returned from work and said casually, while spreading peanut butter on a Ryvita, ‘There’s a really nice girl at work. She’s in her early twenties, I think I might ask her on a date.’

  And I said: ‘You’re kidding me, right?’ I couldn’t deal with him dating someone younger than me: that would be like a slap in the face.

  And Rhodri said, ‘No, I’m not kidding you. I think she likes me. I might just ask her out. What’s wrong with that?’

  ‘Because I don’t want you to start dating someone. What am I supposed to say if you tell me that you’re going off on a date one night? “You look nice, darling. Have a good time?”’

  ‘Well, yes. I suppose so.’

  ‘No-no-no-no-NO!’

  ‘Who are you to talk?’

  ‘She’ll fall in love with you. And she’ll be heartbroken because you’re in a relationship with me. She’ll feel all lonely.’ I’m speaking from experience here.

  ‘I might or might not ask her out.’

  ‘If you do, don’t expect me to be sorted about it. I always said, “Just because you can handle the thought of me being with someone else, don’t expect me to be so magnanimous.”’

  ‘Maria, it’ll happen one day. That’s what we discussed. That’s what we agreed. When it happens, you’ll have to deal with it.’

  ‘I’m warning you in advance,’ I explained. ‘I’ll probably get jealous about it. That’s the way I am. You’re obviously a far better person than me.’

  That’s why I think it’s unlikely he’d keep the news to himself that something’s going on, but I’ll ask him when he returns this evening.

  It’s after six when Rhodri returns from a gardening job.

  He heads straight for the computer to check his email.

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘Tea?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah.’

  ‘Hungry?’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘Rhodri, did you have a romance at the Camp for Climate Action?’

  ‘No, Darren did, though. [Darren is his Welsh friend.] There were these girls who came into the tent, and we were drinking cider, and I thought I might, but then I didn’t.’

  The morning I left for Edinburgh, Rhodri kissed me fondly and said, ‘Have a safe journey, have a good time, and don’t come back pregnant because I’m not going to look after any more of your illegitimate children.’ It was supposed to be a joke, but I didn’t find it very funny.

  I wonder how many couples across the UK have ridiculous casual conversations like ours over rooibos tea: ‘Have you had a good day, husband? Think about shagging any of your colleagues today? No? Why not? That is a shame. Better luck tomorrow.’ It’s absolutely insane – I live this life, and even I can see the lunacy in it.

  ‘I didn’t really fancy the one I was talking to. If I’m not interested in the girl, and if I don’t really like her, I don’t see the point.’

  Well, that’s okay, then.

  Rhodri’s mysterious behaviour has continued all week. Which makes me wonder whether he’s telling the truth, after all. Last night he shouted out another woman’s name, Fiona, in his sleep. I’m going to try to be the most wonderful girlfriend possible again because I don’t want Rhodri to leave me for this Fiona woman. I now see the error of my ways. I’m sorry. I’ll even turn vegan, if that’s what it takes to keep my man.

  To prove how sincere I am about saving this relationship, I’ve even promised Rhodri that this weekend I’ll join him in his activities. Tonight we’re going on a date of Rhodri’s choice. We’ll be attending the launch of works by ‘an underground collective of artists’ exhibiting in an abandoned warehouse. An evening with the future Emins and Hirsts of the art world, a couple of glasses of wine and merriment. It all sounds good to me.

  Come the end of the afternoon, I feel very tired. This morning I dragged Jack around a market, trying to figure out how to feed the three of us for a week on just twenty pounds. I think we’ll have to do without tea and coffee. They’re too much of a luxury. We’ll have to drink water. I’m not sure we can even afford to drink concentrated juice. Now my head hurts from the worry of balancing a food budget with complex vegan recipes.

  ‘I don’t want to go out, I’m too tired,’ I tell Rhodri, as I flop onto the sofa.

  ‘There’s a surprise,’ he says.

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘You never want to go where I want to go.’

  One last shot, I tell myself. That’s all
our relationship needs. I lumber off the sofa and change into my best art-loving clothes. Quick glance in the mirror: yes, I look French peasant, circa 1930s, good hat, good dress, good shoes, now just a lick of red lipstick… there, all done.

  ‘Will it be full of hippies?’ I ask, as we walk to the tram station.

  Jack interrupts: ‘Mum don’t be racist against hippies.’

  ‘No,’ says Rhodri, bursting with pride that Jack is on his side. ‘It will be full of different people.’

  ‘Will I stick out?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Will they all be wearing funny clothes?’

  ‘No. It will be full of normal people.’

  At the station I spot an old schoolfriend. Next to my French peasant get-up, she looks like an über-groovy Ibiza chick. ‘Hiya,’ she beams, ‘where are you off to?’

  ‘A warehouse.’

  ‘You going to the Warehouse Project?’ She’s giddy with the idea that I’m going to a famous club night. As if I’m as cool as she is. As if.

  ‘No, we’re going to a warehouse to look at some art.’

  ‘Very cultural.’ She disappears back to her friends, her long blonde hair flapping behind her.

  In the warehouse I look around me with horror. I stare hard at Rhodri. ‘What is this?’ I croak.

  ‘A squat party! Great, isn’t it?’

  This is so not great. Oh, this is so not great.

  ‘Come on. I’ve got some pens, let’s draw on the walls,’ says Rhodri, collecting a bunch of markers and indicating to me where people have created their own graffiti art. ‘Or you can help yourself to that.’ He points to a pile of junk, comprising broken mirrors, pictures, ornaments and a big sign declaring, ‘Take Me.’

  I feel like that: TAKE ME AWAY. NOW.

  Rhodri and Jack are scribbling happily on the walls. What I am supposed to do? Join in. That’s what I promised Rhodri I would do. I look around for something sane to keep me occupied. In the corner people are juggling for the pleasure of it. Over in the café area trees have been planted in old toilets, and… oh, my Lord, what’s that? What have the other ‘art exhibition’ attendees drawn on the walls?