by Emlyn Rees
‘Great. That’ll keep the bank at bay for another week at least.’
Lisa frowns at my tone and I squeeze the top of her arm. ‘We’ll give the old soul a Mickey’s Flowers special send-off. Don’t you worry.’
Joe’s dug a yo-yo out of his pocket and he plays disconsolately with it, scuffing his foot on the pavement as he waits by the van. He’s wearing long shorts and a baggy T-shirt, and he looks as if he’s waiting to grow into his body. ‘Don’t say anything embarrassing,’ he mutters.
‘Oh! Well, there’s no point in going then,’ I tease.
Slyly, he glances at me.
‘I’m on your side, remember,’ I say more gently. ‘OK?’
‘OK,’ agrees Joe, before pushing me away. ‘Go on, you’re already late.’
I exchange a look with Lisa and stifle a laugh.
St Luke’s is supposed to be the best primary school in the area and I was lucky to get Joe in. There’s lots of scary big-hairdo mums who drive large people carriers with shiny bonnets like upturned noses through countless boroughs to deposit their offspring on the double yellow lines outside the school. It takes me five minutes.
When I get there, the school hall is packed and I don’t know if it’s the late-afternoon sun beating through the wall of windows, or whether it’s my natural reaction to being in a school environment, but I immediately feel drowsy and have to combat the urge to duck behind the nearest bike shed and smoke. Instead, I smile at the lady dispatching cups of tea from the canteen hatch and hold my regulation green cup and saucer at chest height, sipping daintily and trying to look responsible, respectable and all those ‘R’ words I’m supposed to be.
Ignoring the noisy throng of braying parents, frazzled teachers and the constant scrape of under-sized school chairs on the parquet floor, I slink along the wall, reading the text under a mural depicting, in shades of green paint, tin foil and felt-tip pen, the demise of the rainforest. Since the long ream of paper will undoubtedly go in the bin after parents’ evening, it seems to defeat the point, but I’ve never been one to see the immediate benefits of education. I can’t say mine did me any good and I’m not convinced that anything Joe learns at St Luke’s will equip him for life. It’s not as if they’re interested in teaching the kids anything useful, like how to tile a bathroom, fill in a tax return or change a tyre, for example, but then, I suppose, Joe is only nine.
Joe does a brilliant impression of his teacher, Mr Sastry, which makes him sound like Mick Jagger, so I’m not prepared for such a striking-looking man. I’m also not prepared for the fact that he’s clearly younger than me. He has a pointy goatee beard, smooth chocolate skin and smoky green eyes. He stares at me as I finally get to sit down.
There’s a small silence.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ I apologise, smoothing my hair behind my ear.
He waves his hand as if it doesn’t matter and proceeds to flick through a folder, looking at rows of marks, before digging out Joe’s books from a pile under his desk. It feels odd, as if I’m spying on Joe behind his back. I’m suspicious of most teachers, especially when they’re at the end of a long parents’ evening. As Mr Sastry chats through most subjects and explains in a reassuring tone that Joe is distinctly average, I’m convinced he doesn’t really know what he’s talking about. That is, until somewhere after Art and before Maths Mr Sastry pauses and touches the tips of his long fingers together.
‘The thing is … Joe’s … how shall I put this?’
‘What?’ I ask, suddenly alarmed.
‘He’s very solitary. It’s … well, he seems such a loner. Is everything OK at home?’
I’m stumped. An image of Joe sitting alone in the corner of a classroom comes to me and I feel panic rising. Joe’s fantastic. Why isn’t he the most popular kid in the class? ‘He’s fine,’ I bluff. ‘Once you get to know him, he’s very boisterous. The life and soul, actually.’ I smile at Mr Sastry and he nods, although he still looks sceptical.
‘I’m not criticising, you understand,’ he says. ‘Just observing.’
He goes on to show me Joe’s Maths book and I find myself squirming on my seat when I see all the mistakes.
‘It’s genetic,’ I say pathetically. ‘I don’t think he’s going to be an accountant. Thank God,’ I add, trying to be jovial.
Mr Sastry smiles weakly and closes the books. ‘Don’t worry. We’ll get there with Joe. Together we’ll get there.’
Once I’m back in the van, a surge of self-pity takes hold of me. I don’t feel very together – with or without Mr Sastry. For the first time in ages I find myself wishing I were here with a partner who’d back me up and reassure me. I want someone to tell me that I’m a good parent, that I haven’t damaged my child by moving him to a different school in a completely new area. I want them to say that if Joe’s quiet it’s OK. I want it to be fine that Joe doesn’t have a big social life and hasn’t made many friends. But, most of all, I want to be enough. And there’s a nagging feeling inside me that I’m not.
Sometimes I hate the crushing responsibility of being a single parent. It’s so hard knowing that every decision I make affects Joe. Since he was born, it feels as if every word I’ve said, every move I’ve made has left an imprint on him and shaped him in some way. And when I think of all the mistakes I’ve made and what an imperfect parent I’ve been, it makes me want to rewind and start all over again.
Talking aloud, I give myself a hard stare in the rear-view mirror. The truth is that Joe will be a flawed person no matter how hard I try. He’ll make his own way in life with his own mistakes and I can’t be responsible for them. All I can do is love him and if he grows up thinking I’m a failure as a parent, I suppose I’ll just have to lend him the money for therapy. I smoke two cigarettes by the time I’ve fully talked myself out of my panic and am halfway through the third when I hit on a plan.
ToyZone is sandwiched in between a large DIY store and a leather furniture warehouse on the North Circular. They call it paradise for kids; I call it living hell for parents. I almost give up on my mission when I see how far away I have to park and by the time I make it through the turnstiles of the store I’ve run out of time. I should be home by now, but I’m determined to persevere.
I’ve decided to buy Joe a kite. It’s a kind of solidarity gesture, compensation for being a child and having to put up with school. It’s to show him that I care and that I’m not one of those parents who go to parents’ evening at school and then come home and have a go at their child.
In theory, it’s a simple, impulsive plan, but it takes three green sweat-shirted assistants to point me in the right direction. None of them seems to know what a kite is and I can understand why. Outdoor activities obviously aren’t the big thing here. In seconds, I’m lost in a maze of aisles, all lined with computer games, gadgets and consoles. There seem to be thousands of them, of every type and variety. I stop to look at one particularly violent-looking one. I pick up the neat box, shaking my head at the images of exploding aliens. I’m sure this is the one Joe’s been on about and I turn over the box to check the price.
There’s a man about four feet away along the aisle. He’s wearing dark jeans and a casual shirt, and he glances at me, or rather glances at the game in my hand, and I’m about to make a flippant comment about the game being daylight robbery when something in his profile makes my heart thud.
I step nervously towards him. ‘Excuse me?’
Quickly he turns and, putting the game he’s been looking at back on the shelf, starts to walk away from me.
I take a deep breath and follow him, catching up with him in a few strides. ‘Fred? Is it you?’ I persist, although I’d bet my life it’s him.
Fred stops as I touch him on the back of his arm. Slowly he turns round and, as my eyes meet his, my stomach flips over.
The weirdest sensation takes me over: it feels as if I’m zooming back through time. ‘Fred Roper. My God … it is you,’ I say, my voice catching in my throat.
Fred
looks panicked for a moment.
‘It’s me: Mickey,’ I go on, flattening my palm on my chest.
Fred looks shiftily around him and scratches the back of his head. Finally he meets my eye and his mouth breaks into a half-grin so familiar, yet so forgotten, it takes my breath away. ‘Hi, Mickey,’ he says, blinking at me. He says it as if we only saw each other last week, but I still shake my head, astonished. His voice is deeper than I remember, but then I suppose it would be.
‘Fred?’ I repeat. I still can’t believe it’s him. There’s a pause as we stare at each other. Fred’s eyes have creases round them and his face looks thinner, shadowed by a chinful of stubble, but he’s undeniably good-looking. He suits being an adult and, as I stare at him more, it seems obvious that this man with trendy cropped hair was always going to emerge from the floppy-haired, shy teenager I last saw. Still, I can’t help scanning his face for the features I once knew so well. They’re all there, just improved, and the effect astounds me so much that I feel the blood rushing to my cheeks.
‘I hardly recognised you. You … you look so different,’ I say foolishly.
Fred nods, as if he feels the same about me. ‘How … how are you?’ he asks.
‘I’m fine, thanks,’ I manage, but my legs feel shaky and my palms have started to sweat.
Fred nods slowly, as if taking in my ridiculously inadequate answer.
‘And you?’
‘Good.’ He half laughs with shock. ‘Yeah, I’m good.’
A tannoy announcement booms out around us, advertising the special offers in the Sony section of the store, but Fred just continues staring at me and I shift uncomfortably.
I realise now that there’s a little part of me that’s been expecting this moment for a long, long time, but now that it’s come it seems surreal, dreamlike almost. It’s so mundane and so calm, when I always imagined that seeing Fred again would be tumultuous and dramatic, but I guess nothing could be as dramatic as the last time we saw each other.
A shudder runs through me at the memory and I look down at my trainers. I’m aware of the unflattering bright lights and how they must highlight the distinctly unhighlighted roots of my hair. It’s not like me to be vain, but now I wish I’d made a bit more of an effort and didn’t look so dishevelled. I’m sure I’d feel much better if I had some lipstick on. Actually, I’m not certain that’s true. I don’t think a full mask of make-up would make this any easier.
‘I’m buying a present, for my son, Joe,’ I blurt, adding, ‘He’s nine.’
‘He’ll love that one.’ Fred nods at the box in my hand. ‘The graphic engine is amazing.’
‘No,’ I say hastily, putting the game back on the shelf. ‘I’m going to get him a kite. I was just looking.’
‘Oh,’ says Fred.
‘I don’t really approve of all these,’ I admit, nodding at the boxes on the shelves. ‘Given half a chance, Joe would just sit in front of the computer all day. Well, you must know what it’s like?’
Fred nods, but he doesn’t elaborate about his own children.
‘I suppose I just want Joe to run around. Like we used to.’
At the mention of our past, Fred bites his lip. There’s a pause and I’m aware of the huge bubble separating us. A thousand questions bottleneck on the end of my tongue, but I can’t ask any of them. Instead, there’s a noisy silence.
‘I run a flower shop. Over on Kensal Rise. Here,’ I blurt eventually, breaking the tension. I dig out one of my business cards from the breast pocket of my denim jacket and hand it over. Fred looks closely at the type. He holds the rectangle carefully, respectfully, and I point to the address. ‘I live in the flat above.’
He looks at me and I know I’m blushing. I half expect him and half want him to hand back the card, but he doesn’t.
‘Well, you must pop in some time,’ I stutter, wondering what to do with my hands, which seem to be out of control on the ends of my wrists. I clasp my fingers together. ‘For a coffee or something.’
He puts my card in his pocket.
The trill of my mobile phone makes me jump. I pull it out of my bag and smile apologetically at Fred, turning away to answer. It’s Joe.
‘Hi, darling, I’m running a bit late,’ I say, putting my finger against my other ear to hear properly.
‘I’m hungry. Can we have fish fingers?’ Joe asks.
‘If you like,’ I reply, but I’m sounding distracted. ‘I’ll be home in fifteen minutes or so, OK? Love you.’
I press the red button and smile, turning back to Fred. But he’s not there. Ahead of me is an empty aisle. Astounded, I look around, wondering how he can have vanished into thin air. Then I turn round again, feeling my stomach lurch with disappointment as I realise he’s gone. For a second I want to burst into tears.
I keep a lookout for him as I make my way to the kite section, but there’s no sign. I’m in such a daze that I can’t concentrate. The kites are all much more expensive than I thought they’d be and I dither for a while, before plumping for a stunt kite. By the time I get back to the van I’m still shaking, astonished by the enormity and the normality of my encounter with Fred. Of all the people to see again. Fred bloody Roper.
*
As predicted, Joe’s in his bedroom playing on the computer when I get back. The curtains are open and the window is shut. It’s stiflingly hot and the bed and tiny floor space are strewn with an assortment of clothes, books and rollerblades. Joe’s kneeling on his chair and the paddle jerks in his hands as he presses the buttons. I stand in the doorway, watching him, as the electronic beeping noise reaches a crescendo and he punches the air.
‘Ye-ss!’
‘Hello, square-eyes,’ I say, smiling.
Joe grins at me and clambers off the chair. He stumbles and hops about in agony. ‘Ah, ah,’ he yelps. ‘I’ve got pins and needles.’
‘Serves you right.’ I chuckle, turning away as he limps after me. ‘Come on.’
Our kitchenette and living room up the hall is a knocked-through room, with floor-to-ceiling windows in one side, leading to a cast-iron balustrade balcony. We never open the windows, mainly because the road outside is so noisy, but also because the balcony is far too unsafe to support a plant pot, let alone a person. Lisa and I have hung up long lengths of different coloured muslin, which makes the place look quite airy, even though there’s only space for a sofa, the TV and video stand, and a rickety black plywood desk piled high with all the paperwork I have to do for the shop.
The kitchen is squashed into the far end of the room, the three-foot-square patch of black and white tile-effect lino accessed between the fridge and the end of a long breakfast bar. It’s overcrowded with scuffed wooden units, most of which fall apart at the slightest touch. I’ve vowed that as soon as I have enough money I’m going for a complete make-over. Joe says we should write to one of the DIY programmes on the TV, but I doubt if there’s enough space in here for a camera crew and, anyway, having strangers poking around would be far too humiliating.
Joe looks at me, rubbing his foot, as I open the fridge and pull out a can of Diet Coke. ‘How was it?’ he asks.
‘Terrible,’ I tease. ‘I found out that you’re really bad. Disruptive, noisy and –’
‘Mum,’ he says.
I pinch his cheek. ‘They think you’re great,’ I say. ‘But I could have told them that.’
Joe smiles bashfully.
‘I got you something,’ I say. ‘Look.’
I hand over the bag with the kite in it, clasping the cold Coke can under my chin as I wait for Joe’s reaction. ‘Do you like it?’
‘What is it?’ asks Joe, taking the long packet out of the bag.
‘It’s a kite, of course.’ I tut.
‘Oh,’ he says, but he sounds sceptical. ‘Thanks.’
‘You can fly it in the park,’ I enthuse.
‘Who with?’
I pause, my heart constricting for a moment. ‘Me, if you like.’
Joe puts the kite dow
n on the counter and I have to swallow hard. ‘Did you meet Mr Sastry?’ he asks, burying his hands in his pockets.
‘Uh-huh.’
‘What did he say?’ Joe sounds suspicious.
I want to tell him exactly what Mr Sastry said. I also want to plead with him to tell me whether he’s unhappy and to ask him why he’s so quiet at school, but somehow I resist; it would only embarrass him. ‘Well,’ I say cautiously. ‘What do you think he said?’
‘He said I was bad at Maths, didn’t he?’
‘He didn’t say you were bad. You’re not the best in the class, that’s all,’ I reply. ‘But that doesn’t matter. You don’t have to be best at everything.’
Joe looks downcast and I can tell I’ve made a mistake. He knows me too well and he can tell from my tone that I’m not being straight with him. Instead, he’s taken this all personally, as a criticism. Just as I did.
‘Joe?’ I plead. ‘Joe. It doesn’t matter. I was terrible at Maths …’
‘I knew he was going to be horrible. I hate him,’ says Joe.
He doesn’t look at me and turns away, kicking his leg over the back of the sofa and sliding down on to the cushions below. I start towards him and I’m about to explain, when Lisa comes out of her bedroom.
‘Have you seen my yoga mat?’ she asks, stuffing a water bottle and towel into a small rucksack. She’s changed for her class and I notice how fit she looks in her baggy sweatshirt and new exercise pants.
‘No, no, I haven’t,’ I mumble.
‘Joe?’ she says, ditching her bag next to him on the sofa as she starts looking around the living room, pulling up cushions and peering under the desk. ‘Have you seen it? It was here yesterday.’
Joe shrugs and turns on the television, and I withdraw to the kitchen, realising that I’ve lost my chance to explain.
When I finally get to bed, I can’t sleep. I’m surrounded on all sides by noise. Underneath the floorboards the water pipes clank and, on the other side of my bedroom wall, I can hear canned laughter as our unknown neighbours watch TV. Outside, a few feet away, a night bus throbs, making the windows vibrate, and beyond it the pizza delivery mopeds buzz up and down the street like giant mosquitoes.
