Stand by Your Man

by Gil McNeil

  ‘Oh no you don’t. I never said I wanted to join. You’re the one who wants to grow things.’

  ‘But you said you wanted to sort out your garden.’

  ‘I know. But I meant saving up a bit and then paying someone else to do it.’

  ‘But we could do it together, go to a few meetings and pick up some tips. It might be fun.’

  ‘No it bloody wouldn’t.’

  ‘Go on, Alice, please. I can’t go by myself – they might all be nutters. She’s very bossy, that Mrs Pomeroy. If I buy you another drink, will you?’

  ‘Oh all right then, but only for one meeting.’

  The journey home with Mrs Pomeroy takes ages, partly because it takes her about forty-eight manoeuvres to get her Renault Clio out of the pub car park, because she’s not exactly what you’d call a natural driver, but mainly because she’s filling us in on the history of the Garden Society, and how vital it is to attract new members. Apparently there’s bitter rivalry between our village group, Lower Bridge, and the Upper Bridge one, and they’ve hated each other ever since Upper Bridge won the Best Village in Bloom competition years ago.

  Mrs Pomeroy says there were accusations of corruption and rumours about judges being bribed, but last year she won the Best Hanging Basket competition in the regional finals, by cramming forty-eight salmon-pink begonias into one basket with a cunning contrast planting of ivy and lobelia. I think lobelia is that blue stuff, and if it is then that basket must have been quite something. Although I’m not really sure what a begonia looks like, so it might not have been as bad as it sounds.

  Dan is fast asleep on the sofa when we get back, with Lily and Alfie draped over him, and a Peter Pan video still playing. He looks exhausted, and wakes up with a bit of a start when Molly trips over a discarded Barbie.

  ‘Oh thank god, I thought one of them was up again. Did you have a good time?’

  ‘Lovely, thanks. What about you?’

  ‘Just don’t ask, all right?’

  ‘That bad?’

  Molly’s smiling.

  ‘Yes, I’m bloody knackered. Next time you two want a girls’ night out I want back-up, all right, proper professional back-up. Alfie was fine – he fell asleep quite early, in our bed. But then Lily woke him up. And he got his second wind.’

  ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘And then Lily wanted to do painting.’

  ‘You didn’t let her, did you?’

  ‘I’m not completely stupid, you know.’

  * * *

  We sit and drink tea in the kitchen, and Molly tells us about her plans for the garden, and gets quite excited and says she wants to grow vegetables, and possibly fruit, especially rhubarb, and she wants chickens, and then she starts going on about how organic vegetables taste so much better and Dan says if she doesn’t stop going on he’s going to bed and anyway he hates rhubarb. Dan’s not really into gardening – he’s too busy doing up the cottage, which overlooks the village green: they’ve only got a tiny front garden but the back’s huge and as far as he’s concerned it’s a really useful place to put skips and piles of bricks. Not that mine’s much better – I practically had to use a machete to get to the washing line last year. I think I might need a flamethrower or something if I’m really going to make a difference, but I don’t think the Garden Society would approve, and anyway those dinky little things you use to make crème brûlée go brûlée would take hours, and anything bigger would probably be lethal and I’d end up with no eyebrows.

  Dan drives us home, and Alfie surfaces long enough to have a bit of a shout and refuse to have his shoes back on, so I have to carry him to the car, which isn’t easy because he weighs a ton, especially when he’s half asleep. Getting him indoors and upstairs without any major incidents on the kicking and shouting front isn’t easy either, and I’m so out of breath by the time I’ve got up the stairs anyone would think I’d just been out jogging. And every time I lie down everything whirls about a bit, so I end up sitting up in bed with a cup of tea, and a woolly hat on because the house is freezing. The central heating went off ages ago and I can’t face going back downstairs and trying to coax the boiler into having another go. When we bought the cottage we had all sorts of plans for taking down walls and adding on a new kitchen and bathroom, and at some point a new boiler was going to put in an appearance, but somehow I’ve never got round to it, mainly because I haven’t really got the money. Patric did some plans for the kitchen, which I hated, and that was that. He was still sulking about it when he left.

  Patric’s very keen on minimalist spaces with lots of light, which is fine, but his designs tend to include curved walls of glass and daft sinks that are so small you can only fit a plate in at an angle. When you walk into one of his buildings, instead of getting that slightly dizzy breathless feeling you get when you’re standing somewhere really special, you just end up feeling irritated, because there’s always something rather smug and self-conscious going on. Although there seem to be loads of people who want self-conscious houses, with sinks that you can’t wash up in, which is probably just as well because according to him he’s only just managing to hover above the breadline, which is why he can’t afford anything regular in the way of child support for Alfie. So how he affords the new BMW he was driving the last time he came down is a bit of mystery. Perhaps it was a present from a grateful client. Or maybe like Molly says he’s just a tight bastard. But to be honest I haven’t really pushed him on it because I’d rather walk barefoot than ask him for money: although not in the winter obviously, and definitely not on gravel.

  And anyway it was my flat we lived in, in London, so it’s my money that bought the cottage, and I’ve still got a bit left over, for emergencies. The money Patric was planning to spend on doing the cottage up, actually. Which I’m now saving for a rainy day. And maybe a new boiler.

  The humiliation was the worst thing about it all really, once I worked out that I wasn’t actually heartbroken. And when I thought about it Cindy was welcome to him. I just felt so stupid, because it turned out that everyone thought he was completely hopeless, almost right from the start. And it’s a bit embarrassing when you realise that all your friends have been going oh god, isn’t he awful, behind your back, and not telling you, and it’s only after he’s gone that they say oh well, we always thought he was crap, and you’re better off without him. But I suppose it’s notoriously tricky telling someone that you think their new bloke is a disaster, because the minute you do they nearly always turn round and marry them, and then don’t speak to you for years, not until after their divorce.

  The only thing I still mind about is Alfie. I really feel like I’ve let him down. Jim says he’s bound to be better off growing up without Patric in his life every day, and that’s got to be true, I suppose, but it’s still hard. Especially when Patric turns up playing Mr Bountiful, buying him all sorts of presents, and I’m the Wicked Witch who makes him eat broccoli and wear socks. Whichever way you look at it you end up feeling a failure; and if Alfie grows up to be a crack cocaine addict or something I’ll know it’s all my fault, and the really annoying thing is so will Patric. And it does feel a bit like someone has stamped Reject in the middle of your forehead and put you back on the conveyor belt, like some lost bit of tat in The Generation Game, but you still have to try to be civilised when he turns up for a visit, for Alfie’s sake, just in case one day he might actually turn into a half-decent father and give Alfie a vital bit of male bonding. How to do a wee standing up, or something crucial like that. So you’re sort of stuck being accommodating to someone you really want to poke in the eye and never see again, which is a complete bugger really.

  Making fairy cakes with three-year-olds when you’ve got a hangover is definitely one of those things that are much better in theory than when you’re standing there clutching a wooden spoon trying to persuade them not to put cake mixture in the pocket of your pinny. Alfie’s pretty keen on cooking, but only if he can do it his way, which usually means a great deal of bash
ing about with a wooden spoon and eating half the mixture before you can get it into the oven.

  We’ve done the creaming-the-ingredients-together thing, which took slightly longer than usual because I forgot to take the butter out of the fridge. I tried putting it in the microwave but it disappeared except for a small brown stain on the plate, so we had to start all over again, and now we’re at the bit where you put a spoonful in each paper case, as quickly as you can before Alfie eats it.

  I’ve still got to light the fire in the living room so we don’t get hypothermia before bedtime, and try to finish the plans for the Dawsons’ kitchen extension, which has to include space for their gigantic new American fridge. They’re coming in for a meeting tomorrow, and I really need to have something to show them. And if they tell me one more time that they can’t decide if they want to go Shaker or Provencçal I’m going to shut them in that bloody fridge.

  And then the phone rings. It’s Patric. Hooray.

  ‘I’m not going to be able to make this Sunday.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘I’m terribly busy at work, but I’m sure next weekend will be fine.’

  ‘Alfie will be thrilled.’

  ‘Do you have to be so difficult? Honestly, Alice, you do seem to take pleasure in making things as adversarial as possible.’

  Adversarial is one of Patric’s new words. He got it from his solicitor, who handled our non-divorce divorce – since we weren’t married, although it bloody felt like it from where I was sitting. Not being adversarial is terribly important, apparently, especially if there are children involved. And especially if you’re the one who’s doing the leaving, and don’t want to be made to feel guilty about it.

  ‘I’m rather busy at the moment, actually. We’re making cakes.’

  ‘Well, I’d better let you get on with it then. I wouldn’t want to interrupt anything vital.’

  I put the phone down, muttering to myself. He’s such a bastard. That’s the second time he’s cancelled this month. Not that Alfie really minds, but he might. I mean Patric doesn’t know he doesn’t sit there with his face pressed up against the window waiting for Daddy to arrive. Well, actually, to be fair, he probably does, but I don’t see why I should be fair where he’s concerned. The truth is Alfie’s pretty sanguine about Patric’s non-appearances, although he likes getting presents, and Patric usually brings at least one guilt-assuaging bit of plastic crap that makes a loud noise or shoots things into the back of your legs.

  ‘Look, Mummy, I’m being Peter Pan.’

  ‘That’s lovely, darling. Let’s just wash your hands and face.’

  ‘Peter Pan doesn’t have his face washed.’

  ‘Of course he does. If he’s been making cakes, he does.’

  Peter Pan’s wooden spoon misses my nose by a few millimetres.

  ‘I’m Peter Pan and I can fly.’

  He runs off down the hall. Oh god. I charge after him and manage to catch him just as he launches himself into mid-air from halfway up the stairs and begin, for the umpteenth time, to explain to him why he can’t actually fly, even if he is wearing a green felt hat.

  ‘Alfie. We’ve talked about this. You can’t fly off the stairs – you hurt your leg last time, remember.’

  ‘Yes, but I’m a much better flier now. I can fly off the slide at playgroup now, I can, I did it yesterday. Mrs Taylor said I was very clever.’

  ‘Yes, but the slide has a proper bouncy mat at the bottom, doesn’t it?’

  ‘You be Captain Hooker and I’ll run away.’

  ‘It’s Hook, Alfie, not Hooker.’

  It’s important he gets this right because he keeps asking me to be the Hooker when we’re at the swings, which makes people give me very funny looks, although I suppose I could just slap on a bit of extra make-up and sit twirling my handbag: it would definitely be easier than charging around swashbuckling.

  ‘Would you like to watch a video?’

  ‘Peter Pan, Peter Pan, please can we watch Peter Pan?’

  ‘OK, but only if you don’t keep jumping off the sofa.’

  I hate Peter Pan. I think Wendy should have locked that window and told him to bugger off. It’s enough to make you nostalgic for Thomas the Incredibly Boring Tank Engine.

  I try to give the living room a quick tidy while the cakes are in, but Alfie’s not really helping, and then he starts hopping up and down making whining noises because he’s hungry. He’s a really good little eater, as my mum would say, which is a nice way of saying he’s a complete little porker, which is what Jim calls him. I’m trying to do that thing where you ignore them, until they get bored and stop doing whatever it is that’s driving you round the bend, only he doesn’t seem to have noticed, which is quite annoying actually.

  He eats his tea in about thirty seconds flat, and is still clamouring for more cakes as I get him ready for a walk up the lane, so we can check out the new people in the big house, which takes rather longer than I’d planned because one of his wellies has gone missing, although I finally find it in the vegetable rack.

  I’m not really looking forward to trailing up the lane and introducing myself to perfect strangers, just so Molly can keep her end up in the gossip stakes with Janice. But there are pretty much no limits when it comes to keeping whoever looks after your kids happy, I suppose: it’s the Achilles heel of all working mothers. I’m so lucky Mum looks after Alfie: at least when it’s your mum you can have the occasional whine about how you’d prefer it if they didn’t let your child eat chocolate, and there’s a slim chance she might pretend to listen before she slips him another KitKat.

  It’s freezing cold outside, but at least it’s not raining, and a little walk might just get him tired before bedtime. He might miraculously fall asleep early and I can get some work done, instead of traipsing up and down the stairs getting him back into bed and bringing him drinks of water.

  But whenever I’ve got work to finish he’s bound to be bouncing on his bed for hours. I’m seriously thinking of getting him a futon. At least he wouldn’t bounce quite so high, and it would probably be terribly good for his posture. But there’s probably some rule about not putting three-year-olds on futons. And anyway Mum would never forgive me – she’s only just got over Jim getting a water bed.

  It’s only six o’clock but it’s already pitch-black outside so we have to take the torch, which I bought for the power cuts that happen every couple of months round here for some reason, usually when I’m in the middle of cooking tea. Alfie is thrilled to be out in the dark, and has brought his sword in case we meet Captain Hooker.

  The house is just up the lane from ours, and every single light appears to be on and the front door is wide open. Alfie bolts for freedom and attempts to climb into the back of one of the two huge removal vans parked in the drive. Big lorries are another of his passions. I grab his hand and pull him towards the door just as a woman appears.

  ‘Hello, stop that, Alfie, I’m Alice, I live just down the lane so I thought I’d come up and say hello and welcome, and, Alfie, Stop That.’

  ‘Oh how lovely. Do come in – we’re all over the place at the moment, and the removal men have screwed up completely. Half our stuff’s still in London.’

  My god, how much stuff can they have? Our entire house would fit in the back of one of these lorries.

  ‘My name’s Lola, Lola Barker. Lovely to meet you. Oh there you are.’

  A man emerges from the darkness as if he’s been trying to hide.

  ‘Stop skulking behind that lorry and tell me what’s going on. Have they tracked him down yet, or what?’

  ‘Well, as I’ve said, madam, we are very sorry. He shouldn’t be much longer – he’s just outside Maidstone. The battery on his mobile’s gone but he phoned from a call box. And head office want us back at the depot, so if it’s all right by you we’ll be off.’

  ‘No, it is not all right by me. Jesus. You can wait right here and help unload the bloody thing when it does turn up.’

  ‘
But, madam, I’ll have to call head office again and they won’t like it.’

  ‘Funnily enough, I don’t give a damn. I’m not feeling too happy myself. Not since you’ve managed to lose half my furniture.’

  ‘Nothing has been lost, madam. I have explained. The puncture put him back a bit, and then he took a wrong turning. He’ll be along shortly – he’s just outside Maidstone.’

  ‘Yes, but heading in what direction, I wonder? He’s an idiot. You know it. And I know it. The only difference is I’m paying him to be an idiot. It doesn’t seem possible that you could screw up such a simple process. Put stuff in boxes, deliver them, unpack them. Even a gibbon could do it.’

  The removal man is walking backwards now.

  ‘I tell you what. You ring up your head office. Maybe they can send out sniffer dogs to see if they can find him. But trust me. You are not going to be leaving here until the entire job is done. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, madam.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Any chance of a cup of tea while we’re waiting?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Do you?’

  ‘No, madam.’

  The removal man now seems frozen to the spot.

  ‘I’m so sorry about that – do come in. Charles, where are you?’

  She yells up the stairs, and I half expect a Labrador to come bounding down, but I’m pretty sure she’s calling her husband.

  Alfie’s been silenced by the sheer force of her tirade, and he’s been trying to sneak back towards the lorry, but then he spots a Star Wars light-sabre lying on the floor and picks it up seconds before a dark-haired boy belts down the stairs and grabs it from him.

  ‘That’s mine.’

  What a charming child.

  ‘Oh Ezra, don’t be horrible, darling. Let him have a go.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Aren’t small boys foul? He’s had a long day – he’s not normally this revolting. Actually, that’s not entirely true. Oh there you are, Charles. What on earth have you been doing?’