Red merged with red as Gulliver flushed right to the roots of his hair. For a moment, he seemed to be considering the ‘screw you’ retort that a humiliating rebuke inevitably provokes.
But then he looked straight at his mother and said, ‘I want to visit my family.’
All Aishe could bring herself to do was give one short nod. Words were beyond her.
Gulliver threw Patrick a look that could be seen as defiant, but within which Patrick detected a hint of apology. But before he could acknowledge it, Gulliver had sloped quickly out of the room. The stairs creaked as he took them two at a time, then his bedroom door slammed and he could be heard no more.
Patrick was tall enough to reach out across the table. But as soon as his hand touched her shoulder, Aishe shrugged it off.
‘Don’t,’ she said.
‘If it’s any consolation,’ said Patrick, ‘fourteen is the worst fucking age. Men in full mid-life crisis suffer less emotional turbulence.’ He scraped back his chair and stood up. ‘I’ll leave you alone.’
Aishe frowned up at him, as if he’d roused her from a dream. ‘You’re not still staying at Michelle’s, are you?’
Patrick shook his head. ‘Nah. I found a Holiday Inn in the next town.’
‘Aren’t Holiday Inns a bit beneath you?’
‘If there’s cable and a large bed, I don’t give a flying fuck how many stars it has.’
Aishe hesitated. ‘How long are you staying here?’
‘A week. Two, maybe?’ Patrick made his way to the kitchen door. ‘I won’t bother you. Unless you want me to.’ He fished out his wallet and handed her a business card. ‘There’s my mobile. Call if you need anything.’
Aishe was still staring at the card when she heard the front door shut. Patrick was gone.
Much later that night, Aishe took the phone up to her bedroom. She’d been relieved to find it on the stand because its more common resting place was Gulliver’s floor, and she had no desire for contact with him. Not tonight, anyway.
She found the piece of paper on which Michelle had written down the phone number for her friend Darrell’s house — Anselo’s house now, too. Aishe’s request for it had been casual enough, but she suspected Michelle had seen through her. Fair enough, thought Aishe. Not many people need a current phone number for their own brother.
Aishe had no idea what time it was in London. She’d stopped keeping track of the difference years ago. It could be the small hours, she thought. She dialled the number anyway.
And got an answerphone. A woman’s voice, accent like Michelle’s. Asked her to leave a message. Aishe very nearly didn’t, but a sense that it was now or never spurred her to speak.
‘Hi, it’s—’ She’d been about to say ‘me’, but realised that Anselo, after all these years, might not recognise her voice. ‘It’s Aishe. Just — checking in. Here’s my number.’
She rattled it off and hung up. And wondered why she couldn’t bring herself to end the call with ‘Goodbye.’
32
I’ll know by his eyes, Michelle decided.
She was sitting in the living room, glass of wine in hand, pretending to watch television. She’d been right that Chad had wanted to eke out as much of his time away as possible. Wrong that he’d be back in time for the children’s dinner, bath and bed. Harry and Rosie had been in bed for an hour. Chad was not yet home.
I’ll know by his eyes as soon as he steps through that door, thought Michelle. If he intends to leave me, I’ll see the guilt.
Michelle picked up the remote and lowered the volume so much that she may as well have hit the mute button. She strained to listen — was that a car stopping? If it had been it wasn’t Chad’s, Michelle thought after a minute. Even allowing time for him to walk up the path on his knees, he would have made the front door by now. She glanced at her watch for the fifty-millionth time.
I might not bother to look in his eyes, she thought. I might just break this wine glass and plunge the jagged edge straight into his carotid artery.
That morning, Michelle had instructed herself not to give in to the sense of dread that threatened to extinguish the spark of positive anticipation she felt about Chad’s homecoming. It won’t do to get all worked up about this, she told herself. You don’t know what’s going to happen, and you shouldn’t try to guess. Besides, if you were a good wife, you’d be more interested in what he’s discovered on this personal journey of his. You’d be more concerned about what it’s meant for him rather than what any changes could mean for you. And you shouldn’t assume that changes mean your life’s about to go to hell in a handbasket, either. Just because you want things to be one way doesn’t mean that’s the way they have to be. Let him come home to a wife whose spirit is generous and whose mind is open, not to some threatened, belligerent harpie.
Through constant repetition of the above mantra, Michelle had managed to maintain a relatively equable state of mind right through the day. Even when Chad hadn’t been home in time to see Harry and Rosie before they went to bed, she’d been able to find sufficient reserves of goodwill to give him the benefit of the doubt.
But now, those reserves were dry. Michelle was now consumed by a new mantra. It consisted of two words, which pulsated with a pure and furious resentment.
Fuck him.
Fuck him, thought Michelle. Fuck him to hell and back for putting me through this.
Fuck him if he thinks he’s going to leave me — if he doesn’t think our life is good enough for him.
Fuck him if he thinks I’ll be the one who deals with his mother and father. Just because I’m the one who’s taken Virginia’s daily calls, and listened patiently to her genteel wails of distress, as her husband withdraws ever further into a state of squalid reclusiveness, doesn’t mean I’m going to keep it up. They’ll be your problem now, sunshine! And good fucking luck!
Fuck him if he thinks I’ll even stay here! I don’t have to live in this country. I can take the children and go wherever I please. How will you like them apples, champ? If you thought you could have a nice, cosy, friendly separation, then wake up and smell the acrimony. Joint custody, my bum! I’ll fight you to the death and then I’ll jump on your corpse. Like you once said — that’s what you get for marrying a lawyer. Suck on that cold piece of irony, buckaroo!
Fuck it. I wish I’d rung him every day at work and left guilt-laden messages about how the children were wasting away with grief like Victorian orphans. I wish I’d rung all his colleagues — and their bitch wives — and told them what he was up to. I should have got some rumours circulating that were powered by real spite.
I wish we lived in a shittier neighbourhood, was Michelle’s final mental salvo. Then the front door would have a deadbolt, and I could lock him out.
Michelle drained her glass of wine. As she lowered it, she heard the door open. It was like someone throwing a switch in a darkened theatre. Within Michelle, the sparks of emotion sputtered — and then every atom of her being was ablaze.
Chad Lawrence entered the living room to find his wife curled in a tight ball on the couch, shuddering with sobs. And for a moment, he hadn’t the faintest clue what to do.
‘I wish she was dead,’ said Gulliver.
As this came during a reading of Macbeth, just after Lady Macbeth had goaded her husband to commit regicide, Benedict wasn’t immediately sure whom Gulliver meant.
‘I thought the aim was to have more family, not less,’ Benedict replied. ‘And it’s “were” not “was” — a hypothetical statement uses the subjunctive.’
‘Thanks.’ Gulliver ensured the word was crisp with sarcasm.
‘No problem,’ Benedict smiled. ‘That’s what I’m paid for.’
He closed the copy of the Scottish tragedy and placed it on Gulliver’s desk.
‘She hasn’t actually said no, though, has she?’ Benedict said. ‘So willing her demise seems a bit premature.’
‘She’ll find a way to make sure it doesn’t happen,’ said Gulliver su
llenly. ‘There won’t be enough money, or it’ll be the wrong time of the year, or they’ll be short staffed at the shelter, or some fucking thing.’
‘Your language is so blue these days it’s bordering on indigo,’ said Benedict. ‘If you were at my school and you spoke like that, you’d be caned.’
Gulliver looked interested. ‘Did you ever get caned?’
‘No, I did not,’ said Benedict. ‘I was a model student.’
‘Makes you sound like a cardboard cut-out,’ said Gulliver.
Echoing upwards came the sound of a firm knock on the front door.
‘Expecting someone?’ said Benedict.
‘Probably Jehovah’s Witnesses,’ said Gulliver.
He slid off his chair and headed down the stairs. Benedict could tell by the number of footfalls that Gulliver was swinging down with one hand on the banister and one hand on the wall, a practice his mother had expressly banned.
‘A cardboard cut-out,’ said Benedict to the empty room. ‘An uncannily accurate description of how I feel right now.’
A man’s voice mingling with Gulliver’s in the entrance way told Benedict the caller was someone the boy knew. The London cousin, Benedict guessed. Gulliver had mentioned that he’d already paid them a visit, and in a tone that suggested to Benedict that Gulliver’s feelings towards his male relative were mixed. Benedict had decided not to probe — if Gulliver wanted to get something off his chest, he’d come round to it in his own time.
That said, I should get down there, thought Benedict. If Gulliver is abducted, then I suspect my father might find himself outclassed for sheer homicidal persistence.
Benedict knew that Gulliver’s cousin was called Patrick. What he was mildly alarmed to find out upon entering the kitchen was that the man was also a giant. Ye Gods, thought Benedict. He could grind my bones without breaking a sweat. Probably wouldn’t get more than a dinner roll out of them, but still.
The giant stuck out a hand. ‘You must be Gulliver’s tutor. I’m his cousin, Patrick King.’
Benedict returned the handshake and tried to keep his wrist firm. ‘Benedict Hardy.’
‘Hardy?’ Patrick frowned. But if the name was of interest, he didn’t pursue it. ‘How’s your mother?’ he said to Gulliver.
Gulliver scowled. ‘Fine.’
Patrick’s mouth twitched. ‘And how are you?’
Instead of replying, Gulliver opened the refrigerator. ‘Want a soda?’
‘He means a soft drink,’ said Benedict, upon observing Patrick’s blank look.
‘Right,’ said Patrick. ‘Yeah, why not?’
Gulliver handed his cousin a can, then offered one to Benedict, who took it gratefully. Benedict was hungover. Izzy had gone to help Eddie with yesterday’s rock school concert rehearsal. The relief of her absence, compounded with the resentment and unhappiness that seethed through Benedict every time Eddie came to mind — at least every five minutes — had driven him to empty the six cans of Budweiser that Izzy had left in the fridge, then finish off a bottle of cheap zinfandel (another Izzy purchase) that tasted not unlike the liquid in a jar of sauerkraut. The only upside was that he’d crashed into bed early and had slept right through Izzy’s return and her arising out of bed in the morning to go to work. He knew this because she’d left a note on the pillow that said ‘See ya later, sleepy’ and was signed with XXs and a loveheart in which she’d written ‘Ben and Iz 4 eva’, which made him feel even more nauseated than the alcohol that was still coursing noxiously through his system.
He drained the can in a rapid sequence of swallows, and lowered it to find Patrick the giant grinning at him in a manner that his alcohol-furred brain found highly menacing.
But, ‘Us Limeys, huh?’ was all Patrick said. ‘Don’t understand simple English.’
‘I’m half Limey!’ said Gulliver. He added in a mutter, ‘And half who-the-fuck-knows-what.’
‘Your language.’ Benedict cringed at how feeble he sounded.
To his surprise, Patrick backed him up. ‘Yeah, that’s right. Mind your fucking mouth.’
Then Patrick said, ‘Why’s your mother taken on a waitressing job? Surely she could do better than that?’
‘Don’t ask me.’ Gulliver scowled again. ‘Probably because it gives her a chance to be a bitch to new people every day.’
‘Oi,’ said Patrick. ‘I mean this. You talk about your mother like that again and I won’t be arguing your case for a family visit. You’ll be on your own.’
‘Fine.’ Gulliver yanked open a cupboard and pulled out a bag of corn chips. He ripped it open with unnecessary force and stood there, shoving chips into his mouth and glowering.
‘Anyway …’ Patrick placed his still half-full soda can on the bench. ‘I’d better not interrupt your study time. What’s today’s subject?’
‘Macbeth,’ said Benedict.
‘“Who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him?”’ said Patrick.
‘I thought you flunked out of school.’ Gulliver emitted resentment and corn chip crumbs in equal measure.
‘Yeah, and look where that got me,’ said Patrick. ‘But then I stopped dwelling on my past and all the things I felt I’d been deprived of, and amazingly, my life started to pick up.’ He gave Gulliver a last look. ‘Or maybe it just felt like it did, because I stopped being such a fuckwit. He nodded at Benedict. ‘Good to meet you.’
‘Likewise,’ said Benedict, as Patrick strode past him.
‘My, my,’ Benedict said to Gulliver, when the front door was safely closed. ‘What an interesting relation he is. I can’t wait to hear about all the others.’
Gulliver chose not to reply but to peer at the clock on the oven. ‘We’ve got half an hour before Mum gets home. Not enough time to finish Macbeth.’
‘Ah well,’ said Benedict. ‘I’m sure you won’t be astonished to learn that he dies in the end. But then again,’ he added, ‘don’t we all?’
Michelle looked terrible, Benedict thought. What was that word his mother was so fond of? Oh yes. Peaky. Having a wan and sickly appearance. Michelle looked very peaky.
From Harry, Benedict had gleaned the fact that Daddy had come home, and he had brought presents. Harry had a new wooden train for his track and Rosie had a plush cow that went moo when you squeezed it. There had been a lot of mooing that morning, as Rosie crushed the cow relentlessly against the living room carpet.
Benedict assumed that Daddy’s return had not been as joyful for Michelle as it had been for her children, hence the peakiness. But he didn’t dare ask, and Michelle didn’t say anything, so Benedict decided it was best to leave it be.
But when she was still sitting at the kitchen table over an hour after he’d arrived, he felt obliged to speak. Not trusting Rosie to stay safely occupied with cow bashing, he hoisted her onto his hip and started to carry her to the kitchen.
He made it into the hall when the doorbell rang. Benedict dithered for a second, but decided to answer it. It probably was Jehovah’s Witnesses this time, he thought. But at least it could hardly be—
Patrick, on the doorstep, blinked in surprise.
‘Has there been some sort of cloning experiment around here?’ he said. ‘Or have I fallen unknowingly down a rabbit hole?’
‘No, it’s me again,’ said Benedict. ‘I’m also Michelle’s, er, childminder.’ He opened up the door. ‘Come on in. I’m afraid she’s not in the best — well, you’ll see.’
Patrick did see. He saw that even though it was two in the afternoon, Michelle had not yet had a shower, nor changed out of the t-shirt and loose cotton pants that she obviously wore as pajamas. He saw that the cup of coffee in front of her was filmy with cold and probably had been for some time. He saw that her head was bowed and that her stare was inward. Even when the two men, one carrying her baby daughter, walked right up to her, she did not register their presence — until Patrick stooped and kissed her briefly on the cheek.
‘Hey,’ he said. ‘Bad day?’
&n
bsp; Michelle gazed up at him, her expression bewildered. Then her whole face crumpled and she burst into tears.
‘Dear oh dear.’ Patrick sat in the chair next to her, reached around and coaxed her head down gently onto his chest. He stroked her back. ‘Dear oh dear.’
Benedict hovered, uncertain what to do. Rosie narrowed his options by making a lunge for the side of his face.
‘Ouch!’ Benedict prised her small fingers from his jaw. ‘All right, all right!’
He moved so that he could catch Patrick’s eye, and gestured in the direction of the living room. ‘I’ll, er, be …’
Patrick nodded, and Benedict found himself carrying Rosie out of the kitchen at a speed he couldn’t quite justify as a tactful retreat.
I’m a wimp, he thought. Slightest hint of conflict and I run for it.
His mind elsewhere, he sat Rosie back down on her playmat with quite a thump. Her mouth became an O of surprise, and for a second Benedict was concerned that she might cry. Instead she gave a gleeful bellow and clapped her hands together. Rosie had only recently decided that crawling was better than being carried around, and could now move with startling swiftness across the floor. She zipped up to Benedict’s feet and pulled herself upright by gripping his legs. One hand holding herself steady, she reached up the other hand in a gesture that unmistakably meant ‘More!’ ‘You’ll never be a runner, will you?’ Benedict detached her from his legs and plonked her down on the carpet, more gently this time, but enough to elicit another gleeful cackle. ‘You’ll be right amongst it, weapon in both hands, and one more between your teeth, like a Berserker.’
He glanced across the room to where Harry was on his knees, brow creased in concentration as he tried to work out how to fit the curved bridge piece into his train track. Benedict suspected that Harry wouldn’t be a runner, either, but only because he’d be oblivious to any fracas going on around him. Harry moved to the beat of Harry’s drum only — which Benedict always imagined sounded like that in Elton John’s Don’t Let the Sun Go Down on Me as opposed to, say, The White Stripes’ Hardest Button to Button.
The Not So Perfect Life of Mo Lawrence Page 29
