by Sophie King
‘Not good,’ she said. ‘The hospital’s all right but we only get to see the consultant every six months. She goes to a centre where there are computers for the ones who can use their fingers, and other activities.’
‘Jigjigjig,’ interrupted Tabitha urgently.
‘That’s right, love. That’s where you do your jigsaws.’
‘Jigsaws?’ Steff’s admiration was sickening. ‘That’s fantastic. Let me look at your hands. Yes, I can see. Those fingers move nicely, don’t they? And it’s great that you’ve got computers at your school. It’s amazing, you know, Susan, how many special-needs patients can work a keyboard – less pressure on the hands than many other manual skills. But how do you stimulate her during the school holidays?’
Susan felt as if she was being interviewed by Social Services. ‘Well, the centre’s open in the holidays at the moment, although it’s going to close and merge with—’
There was a crash as Tabitha dropped her cup. ‘Nnnnn.’
‘But we’re going to fight for it, aren’t we, Tabs? Oh dear, has the juice gone over your lovely skirt, Steff?’
Josh was already on his way to the kitchen for a cloth. He came back with a grubby tea-towel.
‘That was going into the wash,’ said Susan. ‘There are some clean ones in the top drawer. I’ll get one.’
‘No, please, don’t bother. This will do fine.’ Indeed, Steff didn’t seem put out by the spreading stain on her skirt. Instead, she glanced up at Josh adoringly. ‘Actually, Sue, we’ve got a huge favour to ask, haven’t we, darling?’
Josh was crouching by Tabitha’s chair, holding her hand. He looked up expectantly like a small boy. ‘Would it be all right if we took her out for a walk? I’d love some time with her. And we’ll be careful, honestly.’
‘No. I’m sorry. There’s more traffic since you were here last. And there aren’t enough ramps. You won’t know the way to the park any more and —’
Susan stopped. The tears were coming as fast as she was running out of excuses.
‘Sue?’ Steff touched her arm gently. ‘Sue, I understand. But do you mind if we have a little word on our own? In the kitchen?’
Too scared to speak in case she blubbed out loud, Susan allowed herself to be steered out of the room. Steff sat down at the table. She nodded at the seat opposite.
‘Please.’
Reluctantly, Susan obeyed, hoping the other woman wouldn’t notice the marmalade smears that were still there from breakfast.
Steff leaned across the table and took Susan’s hand briefly. Her hands were soft and her nails immaculate. ‘Sue, this is so important to Josh. He’s told me all about it. Everything. He feels terribly guilty and he knows he shouldn’t have walked out on you.’
‘Too bloody true,’ said Susan.
‘But he’s older now. He’s learned his lesson, just like we all do.’ Steff squeezed her hand but Susan pulled it away. Steff’s eyes watered as though she was the one who was entitled to be hurt. ‘He’s clean too. Honestly. I know about his history and I also know he doesn’t take anything any more. All he wants is a more active role in caring for Tabitha. We’re not going to try to take over, but when we move to Bedford we’ll be that much nearer.’
She was horrified. ‘You’re moving to Bedford?’ It was only ten miles away! They’d be here all the time.
‘But we won’t get in the way. Promise. We’ll only come when you say. Just give Josh a chance. That’s all I ask. And let us start by taking Tabitha for a little walk now so she can have some time with her father. Every daughter ought to have that.’
Susan wanted to refuse, but her body felt as though it belonged to someone else. Everything that Steff had said made sense. If she was honest, she’d made life so unbearable for Josh, after that MMR decision, that she wasn’t surprised he’d walked. Yes, of course he should have seen more of them afterwards, but she couldn’t shut out that picture of the joy in Tabitha’s face at seeing her dad. What right did she have to deprive her poor daughter of that? She’d often seen Tabitha’s jealous looks when other dads arrived at the centre. ‘You’ll be careful with her?’ she said at last.
‘As careful as we would with a newborn baby.’
Susan shuddered, remembering what a perfect baby Tabitha had seemed. ‘He told you everything?’
Steff squeezed her hand. ‘There’s no proof, you know. All the evidence shows that the MMR—’
‘Don’t talk about it,’ said Susan, fiercely, tears swimming into her eyes. Furiously, she willed herself to get rid of them. Look out of the window. Her neighbour’s washing was flapping on the line. Clean, crisp washing. Nice and normal. ‘All right. Just a short walk. I’ll tell you where to go. And, please, Steff, look after her.’ This time she couldn’t stop the tears. ‘She’s all I’ve got left.’
Steff grabbed her hand again. ‘I promise. I know this is difficult for you, but I’m not a wicked stepmother. I just want Josh to be happy. And Tabitha needs two parents. Every kid does.’
Susan stood at the window, watching them push Tabitha down the street. Her daughter had crammed a fist into her mouth, the way she did when she was very excited. No loyalty. No looking back for her mother. Almost out of sight now. Gone.
An hour, Steff had said. How was she going to pass a whole hour on her own? Crazy. For years she had craved more time to herself and now she didn’t know what to do. Read? She wouldn’t be able to concentrate. Watch television? A waste of a beautiful day. Garden? She could make a start on those weeds. But she really wanted to talk to a friend. Joy? No. She’d tell someone else about Josh and then everyone at the centre would gossip.
From Rainbow to What Mums Know: My ex-husband, who hasn’t been near us for more than a year, has just turned up out of the blue. He’s got married again and his wife wants to be my new best friend. My ex wants to see more of our twelve-year-old daughter even though he left when she was a baby. He’s taken her out now and I feel so alone. She didn’t even wave goodbye. I’m also scared in case he doesn’t look after her properly. How do mothers cope when their kids go to the other parent at weekends?
Briefly, Susan reread her message. She’d deliberately failed to mention that Tabitha was disabled because it would have defeated the object of joining a group in which she wanted to be normal. On the other hand, if she didn’t describe Tabitha’s circumstances, it would be difficult to explain why she felt so worried and betrayed.
Send.
Just pressing the button made her feel better. And no one would tell. That was the beauty of being Rainbow. Now for those weeds.
She’d just found the trowel under the sink when the phone rang. She knew it! Something had happened. The wheelchair had tipped over. Tabitha was hurt. How could she have let them go?
‘Mrs Thomas?’
‘Yes.’ She could barely get the word out.
‘This is Bekki Adams from the Gazette. We’re doing a story on the centre closing and I was given your name. I wonder if you could spare the time to give us a quote on what this means to you.’
The relief that Tabitha was all right made her babble: ‘Yes, I can. But you’re wrong about something. The centre isn’t necessarily going to close. We’re starting a campaign to save it.’
‘You are? Fantastic. I didn’t know.’
Her enthusiasm gave Susan hope.
‘Can you help us, er . . . Bekki? Could you run a piece encouraging readers to support us?’
‘I’ll need to check with my editor first,’ the girl sounded excited, ‘but it sounds a great idea to me.’
12
TIP FROM JULIE OF EASTBOURNE
Give your kids a diary to keep through the summer. Get them to stick things in like leaves from a walk or postcards from places you’ve been to.
Mark stared at the screen, wondering where he had gone wrong. Why weren’t his own kids into innocent pursuits like collecting leaves or postcards instead of being glued to Facebook, computer games where everyone got shot or that awful music channel
on Sky?
Briefly, he wondered if Julie of Eastbourne could be persuaded to swap kids for a week. Any child who was prepared to keep a nature diary would be a doddle to look after. It was all he could do to get his lot seated at the table for breakfast. ‘Freddy, can you hurry up?’
‘I can but I won’t.’
‘Stop being so difficult. And eat up.’
‘I hate brown bread, Dad. Why can’t we have white bread like Mum used to give us?’
Mark wiped fingers, stained with blackberry jelly, on the ‘Dad’ apron that the kids had given him, via Daphne, last Christmas and hoped he’d been right to play down that awful cross-dressing scene the other day. Somehow it didn’t seem right for a boy to fuss about the kind of bread he got for breakfast, just as it wasn’t right for him to wear his mother’s pink silk evening top. It might be her bra next, if this went on. ‘Because white isn’t healthy for you.’
‘It is, if it’s got those wholemeal bits in it like that stuff on television,’ piped up Florrie.
Freddy studied his plate unenthusiastically. ‘And why have you given me an E?’
Mark nearly dropped the margarine tub. ‘A what?’
‘An E!’ Freddy waved a large white tablet in the air. ‘Our biology teacher says we should never have anything that’s got a circle on it. It could be Ecstasy.’
‘For pity’s sake, Freddy, it’s a bloody vitamin pill. Look!’
Mark waved the bottle in front of him. It had a large jolly smiley face on it, promising a lifetime of vitality.
‘Well, it shouldn’t have a circle.’
‘Write and tell the manufacturers.’
‘I will.’
He probably would too, thought Mark, trying to sponge blackberry jelly off his poorly ironed blue and white striped shirt. When Freddy wasn’t behaving like an uncontrollable toddler, he was coming out with observations that showed a fine line in lateral thinking. That child would go far, but it was anyone’s guess whether it would be up or down. He was still worried about those nubile pictures on the computer. ‘Are you sure you didn’t download anything from that teen site?’ He couldn’t bring himself to dignify it with its full name.
‘I swear. I told you, these things just pop up sometimes.’
Freddy’s eyes shone with such righteous indignation that Mark knew he was telling the truth.
‘And what about Mum’s jumper?’ said Florrie, mischievously.
‘Shurrup. I told you. I wasn’t wearing it. I was just smelling it.’ He flushed. ‘It reminded me of her.’
Florrie slid off the kitchen stool. ‘How sad can you get?’
Mark patted Freddy briefly on the shoulder to show he understood.
‘Come on, you two, or I’m going to be late.’
The meeting, thank goodness, was on the Paddington side of London. Providing they got out now and there was a space in the station car park, he might just make it after he’d dropped the kids off at the holiday club.
‘Ouch, Florrie – fuck off.’
‘Freddy, don’t use that word!’
‘It’s not a word.’
Mark ran his fingers through his hair. ‘Then what the hell is it?’
Freddy grinned. ‘Two words.’
His son was going to be the death of him. ‘If I’d wanted to work in the mental-health industry, I’d have done so. Now, get your butt upstairs and brush your hair.’
‘No.’ Freddy gave him two fingers from the staircase. ‘It’s my hair.’
‘Well, I sired it.’
‘What does “sire” mean?’
‘Provided the sperm,’ replied Florrie, promptly. ‘He provided sperm during sexual intercourse with Mum to make you and your hair.’
‘Don’t talk like that.’
‘I just have.’
‘Well, stop it.’
‘Make me.’
She was upset. It was as hard for her as it was for him.
‘Florrie.’ Mark tried to put his arms round her but she pushed him away. ‘In the car, both of you,’ he said, more softly. ‘But clean your teeth first.’
There was a soft thud as the post fluttered through the door. For the past month, Freddy had been on tenterhooks to see if he’d won a competition for Wattevers tickets that he’d entered through the local paper. Mark didn’t have the heart to tell him that he’d have heard by now.
‘There’s a postcard from Mum!’ yelled Freddy.
Florrie, toothbrush in hand, flew back down the stairs. ‘Where?’
‘Shut up, I’m reading it.’
‘Share,’ commanded Mark, looking over Freddy’s shoulder.
The sight of the large loopy writing, almost unreadable, like many bright people’s script, made his armpits sweat.
‘She’s been roller-skating,’ said Freddy, disbelievingly. ‘In Central Park. Look. There’s a picture. I want to go roller-skating. I keep telling you.’
‘We’ll go next weekend.’
‘But I want to go roller-skating in Central Park, not boring old Oxford.’
Florrie nodded. It wasn’t often they were in agreement. ‘She doesn’t say when she’s coming back. And why isn’t there a postmark?’
‘I don’t know. But it’s a pretty stamp, isn’t it? I could get you an album if you like and we could start collecting them.’
‘For God’s sake, Dad, that’s so sad.’
‘Well, what about a holiday diary, then? I’ll give you a tenner if you write something.’
Florrie looked mildly interested. ‘Every day?’
‘No. You get one tenner in total.’
‘In your dreams, Dad.’
He sighed. ‘Look, we’ll definitely go roller-skating. That’s a promise.’
‘Tonight?’ asked Freddy, picking his nose.
Mark ran his hands through his hair in frustration. It was so hard getting everything right. There was so much to remember and do that he needed a spreadsheet to record all their activities and his jobs. ‘Not tonight. At the weekend. Now, in the car – fast. And don’t flick that. Here’s some loo paper.’
Why, he asked himself, gazing out of the window at the Oxfordshire countryside as the train sped towards London, couldn’t Hilary have been a normal mother like her own? Daphne had been a traditional intelligent, stay-at-home mum who had given birth to one very bright daughter. Keen to give her the opportunities she had never had, she’d encouraged her to go to Oxford, after which Hilary had got a place on a banking course for graduates. Then she’d got married, had the kids and continued working.
‘Aren’t you happy?’ he had asked her, when she’d been offered the New York job that he hadn’t even known she’d applied for.
She’d looked at him with those serious eyes and the classic English-rose face that had first attracted him to her. ‘Define happiness, Mark. Is it putting up with kids who answer you back so you can’t think clearly any more? Or suddenly realising that society expects you to put someone else – two other people, or three if you include you – before yourself for the rest of your life? If I’m going to make something of myself, it means being selfish. If I put the kids first, they’ll have exactly the same identity struggle in twenty years’ time. At least, Florrie will. It’s worse for girls. I’ve been brought up to go places, Mark. I can’t do that here any more.’
He should have told her that, yes, she was being a selfish cow and that plenty of other mothers and fathers were making sacrifices, if that was what you called it. But he’d been too scared of losing her. They had continued to make love, always at his instigation, until the day she went.
The train stopped at Reading station. Already? He still had some fine-tuning to do on the press release for Educational Fun Toys, the new client he was meeting. Mark opened his laptop. Better check his emails in case the EFT people had changed the arrangements. Good. Nothing in his inbox that couldn’t wait until later. His index finger hovered over the integral mouse. He’d like to see if anyone had replied on the kicking issue but there was only another
thirty minutes until the train got into Paddington.
That press release should come first but . . .
What Mums Know. Message Board. Mark’s chest lurched slightly.
He hadn’t really expected anyone to bother but there were two replies for Mimi. Grateful that both seats next to him were empty, he skimmed the messages. One, from someone called Rainbow, was very New Age, and the second had come from ‘Expectent’ Mum.
From Rainbow to Mimi: My daughter used to lash out at other kids and the teacher had to move her in class. That didn’t work but then another mum said it was because of frustration and I needed to find her another outlet. So every time she did it, I got her to clap her hands really loudly. I’d clap mine too and it became a game. Now she’s stopped.
A clapping game? As if that would work on Freddy!
From Expectent Mum to Mimi: If your kid is so orful, you must be a pretty lousie mum. If it were my kid, Id give it a smack.
Thats what my mum wuld have done.
Mark shifted uncomfortably on the seat. It served him right for asking advice from strangers who couldn’t even spell. Maybe he was a hopeless mum but was that because he was actually a dad or because he couldn’t do it right? Scanning the messages for any more hate mail, he stopped in his tracks.
I want to know if anyone out there can tell me if it’s possible to go on after your husband has had an affair.
Mark went cold. There had definitely been times, before Hilary went, when her behaviour had been so erratic that he had wondered if she’d been cheating on him.
Looking back at what happened, I feel really stupid because I didn’t guess the truth. But I honestly didn’t think my husband would do that kind of thing.
He could understand that, all right.
