by Tim Dowling
At first I was unsure what sort of example I was setting for them. I always knew exactly what being a dentist was, because my dad was my dentist. A typical Saturday outing with my father would consist of a trip to the lab that made dentures for him.
What I do for a living doesn’t look like anything, or rather, it looks like a man who is sitting in front of a computer, but not really using it. They also knew I went to the park sometimes, to walk the dog. Perhaps, I used to think, they tell people their father is a dog-walker.
The path at the front of the park is being relaid, and my main objective for the afternoon is to stop the dog wading into six inches of wet cement for the second time in the same day. Having failed, it is my revised aim to prevent the dog from getting wet cement all over the furniture. Here I do not succeed either. I also have an article to finish. In this, too, I am failing.
At about 4.30 p.m., the doorbell goes. It is the older two, back from school. I hear them giggling over the entryphone.
‘What’s funny?’ I ask.
‘That’s like Dad,’ says one of them quietly. They start laughing again.
‘What’s like me?’ I say.
‘Let us in!’ they shout.
I push the button and go downstairs, where they’re shedding coats and shoes on the floor, still laughing.
‘What is like me that’s funny?’ I say.
‘We had to watch this video in PHSE,’ the middle one says.
‘What is PHSE?’ I say.
‘Personal health and social education,’ the older one says.
‘It was called being “Being Different”,’ the middle one says, ‘and there was this kid in it who said, “I’m different because my mum goes out to work and my dad stays home all day.”’ They stare up at me with idiotic grins on their faces.
‘We’re Different,’ the older one says, gurning. The middle one laughs.
‘You’re more than different,’ I say. ‘Frankly, I think you’re both a little bit special.’
I return to my office and fail to write an article over the course of the next hour. At 5.45 p.m. I give up and go downstairs. My wife is reading the newspaper while the three boys watch television.
‘Well, look who it is,’ she says sarcastically. ‘Look, children. It’s your father.’
I don’t know what she means by this. It’s not me that’s been anywhere. I sit on the couch. The children are watching one of those programmes made up of mobile phone footage of people falling over. It epitomizes all my overruled objections to the recently installed satellite dish. ‘This is the worst programme I’ve ever seen in my life,’ I say.
‘It is rubbish,’ the oldest says.
‘I’ve seen this one before, anyway,’ I say. Feeling guilty, I stand up to leave the room.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’ my wife says.
‘I still have a bit of work to finish,’ I say.
‘How convenient,’ she says.
I go upstairs and fail to write an article some more. A while later I hear my wife on the landing below me. ‘Why is there dried mud all over the bed?’ she shouts.
‘It’s—’ I stop there, suddenly realizing it would be a tactical mistake to point out that it’s actually dried cement.
‘Yes,’ my wife says, ‘I’m not surprised you’re lost for words.’
Some day, I think, I shall have a job where I work far away from home, and then they’ll see what’s Different. Who will walk the dog three times a day? Who will take delivery of the neighbours’ packages? Who will let the electrician in, or put pans under leaks when it rains? Who will tell the Jehovah’s Witnesses that, yes, of course they can leave a copy of the Watchtower if they like? Who will read the Watchtower in its entirety?
Then I realize that this day will never come, because I have become unfit to work in an office surrounded by other people. I lack the basic interactive skills. Perhaps it’s because I never took a class called PHSE, and so have no Social Education.
My computer screen goes black because I have not touched the keyboard in half an hour. I stare at my gaunt reflection in the darkened glass, and my reflection stares back at me. Oh well, I think. At least you have your Personal Health.
As my children get older I feel less like a stay-at-home dad and more like a neglected pet. Sometimes it makes me want to chew up something they own. I would like to be able to demonstrate some kind of professional competence for their benefit, but I can see that knowing when to use a semicolon is never going to inspire much in the way of admiration.
My dentist is explaining what he’s just done to me. ‘I’ve built up the side of the tooth,’ he says.
I nod. My manner is sober, collegiate: because my father was a dentist, I like to give the impression of expertise. Go ahead, I want to say, use the jargon. But my face is too numb to talk.
At home that afternoon we watch the tennis on television while conducting a family conversation of unsurpassed inanity.
‘Why don’t clouds cast shadows?’ the middle one asks.
‘Because they’re not under the sun,’ my wife says.
‘Clouds do cast shadows,’ the oldest one says. ‘Big ones.’
‘Oh yeah,’ the middle one says.
‘Stop asking stupid questions,’ my wife says.
‘Who’s stupid?’ says the middle one. ‘You just said clouds were above the sun.’
‘No I didn’t.’
‘Every cloud casts a shadow somewhere,’ I say. My contribution feels weighty, like an aphorism, until I instantly think of a contrary example: a cloud under a cloud.
‘Shut up about clouds,’ my wife says.
‘You’re a cloud,’ the middle one says.
The youngest one appears. ‘Watha thcore?’ he says.
‘Why are you talking like that?’ I ask.
‘My bwaithe,’ he says.
‘What?’
‘I told him not to fiddle with his brace,’ my wife says. ‘But he did, and now he’s broken it. Again.’
‘I thaid thorry,’ he says.
‘Let’s have a look,’ I say, moving the lamp closer. ‘Open, please. Wider.’ I peer in, and describe my findings. ‘A section of the apparatus, which runs from molar to molar across his palate, has come loose.’
‘I’ve seen it,’ my wife says. ‘I’m taking him on Monday.’
‘He can’t live like this until then,’ I say. ‘Can he?’
‘It’s the weekend,’ my wife says. ‘What can I do?’
‘Is there an emergency number?’
‘I’m sure there is. Call it.’ It occurs to me that an emergency appointment may incur an emergency fee.
‘You call it,’ I say.
‘You’re a cloud,’ the middle one says.
We sit down to supper, but the boy cannot, will not, eat. His exasperation casts a cloudy shadow over the meal. I think about my father, rising from the dinner table on Friday nights to treat patients who had swallowed their partial dentures, and experience a sudden realization.
‘I can fix this,’ I say.
‘Uh-oh,’ the oldest one says.
‘Come with me,’ I say.
The youngest one follows me into the sitting room and, at my bidding, lies with his head on the arm of the couch. I shine a camping torch into his mouth and tug gently on the loose component. It gets looser still, but remains fixed to the wire running through the upper brace. The arrangement is familiar: I used to wear braces, and fiddle with them.
‘Wait here,’ I say. I run to the tool cupboard.
‘Whath thath?’ he says when I return.
‘Wire cutters,’ I say. ‘They’re rusty, but sharp.’ He is eerily calm as I stick the point in his mouth and clamp it round the wire. I find his trust touching, if a little unnerving.
‘Here we go,’ I say. ‘Tongue out of the way?’
‘Yeth.’
‘Good. Don’t move.’ I squeeze. There is a loud snip as the component comes away in my hand.
‘Whoa,’
he says.
‘How does that feel?’ I ask.
‘Great,’ he says. ‘Thanks.’ He returns to the kitchen and sits down. I follow him in a minute later, clutching my trusty, rusty wire cutters.
‘Next,’ I say.
My wife tells me she’s ordered a new shed. Our old shed, with its rotted roof and holed floor, is filled with the kind of stuff you don’t mind getting wet – mostly cracked pots, shredded plastic sheeting and leaves. I have long maintained that getting by with a useless shed for so many years proves we don’t really need a shed.
‘It’s nothing to do with you,’ she says. ‘I’m paying someone to put it up, and to take away the old one.’
‘Good,’ I say.
By sunset the new shed is in place and my wife is so pleased that I begin to regret my unhelpfulness. The next morning, she is gone by the time I get up.
‘Where have you been?’ I ask when she returns.
‘I bought a potting bench and some shelves for the shed,’ she says, holding out her keys. ‘They’re in the back of the car.’
The potting bench doesn’t look like a bench. It looks like a bunch of wood wrapped in plastic with a picture of a bench stuck on the front. Before I can stop her, my wife has opened the plastic, letting the loose timber clatter to the ground.
‘Shall I get you the drill?’ she says.
It takes four and a half hours of false starts and free-form swearing to put the bench together. Frankly, I’m a little disappointed it’s gone so well.
‘That wasn’t so hard, was it?’ my wife says.
‘Yes, it was,’ I say.
‘What about the shelves?’
‘Tomorrow.’
The next morning I rise early to find the youngest one watching TV alone. I open the back door and see the constituent parts of the shelving unit lying on the patio. I stare at them for a bit. Then I turn back towards the television.
‘Come and have a look at this,’ I say to the youngest one. ‘It’s like a puzzle.’
He stands over the pile, a length of stainless steel edging in one hand and the pictorial instructions in the other.
‘You bolt these together first, for the sides,’ he says. ‘Then you add the shelves, two bolts for each corner.’
‘Are you sure?’ I say. ‘Because I think you might need to—’
‘I’m sure,’ he says. ‘Get me a wrench.’
‘OK, but first we should just—’
‘It’s fine,’ he says. ‘I can do it by myself.’
The sun comes out. I make coffee and pull a chair towards the open garden door, just out of sight, where I can listen to the birds singing and the youngest one muttering under his breath as he crouches over the instructions, wholly absorbed in my chore. It is the nicest morning in my memory. With any luck, I think, he’ll be finished by the time my wife comes downstairs.
I hear the bright ring of a steel shelf tipping over and hitting the ground, the unpleasant squeak of metal on metal and the sound of a tiny nut rolling across a paving slab.
‘For the love of fuck,’ says the boy, quietly.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Constance is not one of my children, but her parents were among the first of our friends to have a baby, long before my wife and I were even married, so we have known her since she was born. They lived a few doors down from us in those days, and sometimes we would babysit. As a child Constance had a bewildering stillness about her that slightly freaked us out, but that was a long time ago now.
Constance has come to stay with us for a few days. She has stayed with us before, so we know what to expect, but it’s always still a little surprising.
Overnight, I have forgotten she’s in the house, but I remember as soon as I wake up because I find her perched on the end of my bed, talking to my wife about a dress.
‘You need to help me pick one,’ says Constance.
‘Not right this minute I don’t,’ my wife says.
‘Why is she in here?’ I say, my voice a thin croak.
‘Tim!’ shrieks Constance. ‘How can you say that?’
‘Can you make her go away?’ I say to my wife.
‘Tim,’ says Constance, ‘why have you got a beard?’
‘I don’t know,’ I say. Overnight, I had also forgotten I have a beard, but I feel it now, like a small itchy jumper tied to my face.
‘It makes you look so much older,’ she says.
‘What time is it?’ I say. ‘Why is this happening?’
‘You should shave it off,’ she says, leaving the room. My wife and I look at each other in silence.
‘I’m glad we only have boys,’ I say.
‘So am I,’ my wife says. From the other side of the door I hear Constance shriek, ‘How can you say that?’
I get up and go downstairs. I can tell Constance has got hold of my wife’s phone, because as I’m making coffee I receive a text from my wife that says, ‘I love u so much I am nothing without you lets renew our wedding vows.’ At about this time our youngest son, at football practice, receives a text that reads: ‘You are my favourite child.’ The middle one gets: ‘I always wished you were a girl.’
When I return to my room, Constance is there, sitting cross-legged on the bed, reading the newspaper.
‘Tim,’ she says, ‘it’s so weird that you’re American.’
‘Is it?’ I say. She turns the page.
‘Do you like being American?’
‘Yes,’ I say.
‘Are you proud to be an American?’
‘Yes. Not really. Don’t know. Yes … Actually, I refuse to answer.’
‘Whatever,’ says Constance.
‘But as an American, I require a rather surprising amount of personal space. In fact, I would like it if …’ She turns towards the door.
‘You need to help me with this fucking dress!’ she shrieks. From elsewhere, my wife shouts back. I grab my clothes and go in search of a safe place to put them on.
Half an hour later my wife comes in from walking the dogs, double-thumbing her phone as she enters.
‘What are you doing?’ I say.
‘Apologizing,’ she says. ‘She texted random names in my address book, with things like, “You are my best friend.” A lot of people were alarmed.’ I can hear Constance in the other room, talking to the youngest one, who has just returned from football and is trying to watch TV.
‘Do you love me?’ she says.
‘No,’ he says.
‘Are you sure?’ she says.
‘How long is she staying?’ I say.
‘Don’t worry,’ says my wife. ‘We’re going away.’ I’d forgotten we were leaving Constance in the house on her own for the night. We depart hastily and without listing any particular rules for her to follow, other than the one we established the last time she came to stay, which is Under No Circumstances Should The Cops Be Here When We Get Back. Over the weekend we receive only two texts, one that says, ‘When does the hot water come on?’ and one that says, ‘Where is the wine?’ so I have every reason to hope, as we turn the final corner for home, that this time they won’t be.
Constance is actually one of four sisters, and when they all come for lunch things get loud. It is not at all the kind of loudness I am used to, which normally consists of the crack of a football repeatedly hitting venetian blinds, punctuated by swearing. This noise of Constance and her sisters is much closer to what I imagine it’s like to work in that room at the airport where they quarantine all the exotic birds people try to smuggle into the UK: one squawk setting all the others off, the cacophony rising in both volume and pitch until your ears overload. My sons are cowed into silence by it.
My wife loves it, and makes herself heard by bellowing over the top. I do my best to join in, but my concentration fails and I find myself staring into the middle distance. My wife waves a hand in front of my face.
‘Are you ever going to say anything?’ she shrieks. Looking around the kitchen, I realize I can actually feel the noise against m
y eyebrows.
‘When?’ I say.
‘What?’ she shouts.
I am sent out to get more wine. It’s amazingly quiet outside. On the way back I wave to a neighbour.
‘I hope that’s not wine in that bag!’ she says. I think she has read in my column that I am not drinking, which was true last week. But this is this week.
‘No,’ I say, resting the bag against my thigh to stop the bottles clinking together.
The noise hits me as soon as I open the door. It contains notes of both delight and panic, as if people were bravely trying to conduct a cocktail party during a train derailment. They’ve just discovered that the youngest one is missing.
‘Where is he?’ my wife shouts.
‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘He’s probably hiding.’
‘Find him!’ shouts Constance.
‘Bring him here!’ shouts her sister. ‘We love him!’
I find him in his room, sitting at his desk.
‘Your presence is requested,’ I say. ‘Come downstairs.’
‘I’m doing my homework,’ he says. ‘So no.’
‘I can’t really go back down there without you, so … wait – you’re what?’
‘Doing my homework,’ he says. I notice he has a textbook open and is making marks on a worksheet. He’s also watching a movie on a laptop and talking to someone on the phone, but it’s still an odd sight.
‘Is he coming?’ my wife shouts as I refill my glass.
‘No,’ I say. ‘He says he’s doing his homework.’
‘He’s not getting away with that,’ she says. She goes to the foot of the stairs and calls him, deploying the special, chainsaw-edged howl she reserves for communicating over distance.
As lunch gets under way the conversation divides into three, and becomes ear-splitting. Suddenly the sister at the far end pounds the table with her fist until everyone turns her way. She introduces a single topic: religious tolerance.
