Saturdays at Noon

by Marks, Rachel

  I slip my hands into my pockets. ‘You asked.’

  ‘So how about you then, Little Miss Perfect? If you haven’t got an anger problem, why are you here? Let me guess, you got lost on the way to teaching your parenting expertise class?’

  ‘Yeah, something like that.’

  ‘Come on. Didn’t we just promise to be open and honest?’

  I put my foot up on the chair and re-tie the lace of my boot. It’s scuffed and dirty so I drop it back to the floor, irrationally feeling that not taking proper care of my footwear weakens my moral standpoint. ‘It was either this or a prison sentence.’

  I can tell from the way he starts to laugh and then stops that he’s not sure if I’m joking. I’m not going to clarify it for him.

  He gestures to the piece of paper in my hand, his face almost pleading. ‘Look, shouldn’t we get some triggers written down?’

  ‘Why? Scared you might get told off?’

  The tinny sound of the triangle echoes around the hall and the group goes quiet.

  ‘OK. Right then. Is there anyone who would like to share what they’ve got so far?’

  A man on the opposite side of the circle raises his hand. He’s in his fifties, stocky, and his skin is ruddy and weathered, like he works outside. He has a thin layer of greying stubble and eyelids so heavy-looking I imagine they’d be hard to see out from under.

  ‘Tim, thank you.’

  ‘Well, one of my triggers is my dog,’ he says, clasping his hands behind his neck and leaning back. ‘He’s literally just there all the time. I get back from a hard day at work and he’s under my feet, hassling me for attention when I just need time to breathe, and it drives me crazy.’

  I laugh and everyone looks at me like I just let out a whoop of joy at a funeral. I genuinely thought he was joking, that he was one of those people who hide their true inner turmoil behind a veneer of tomfoolery. But witnessing the nodding heads and murmurs of agreement, I clearly misjudged the situation.

  ‘My cat’s exactly the same,’ a tattoo-covered guy pipes up. ‘As soon as I sit down to relax, he’s crawling all over me, padding me, licking my face. It makes me want to launch him through the window.’

  ‘Why have a pet then?’ I say it under my breath but it’s like they’ve all got supersonic hearing because, again, all eyes turn on me.

  ‘Just because he winds me up doesn’t mean I don’t love the thing,’ the cat-launcher retorts. ‘My kids do my head in sometimes, but I’m still glad I’ve got them.’

  His anger towards me seems to reflect the mood of the group. The session has not started well. Sam gives me a reassuring smile, underpinned with pity, and redirects the conversation to different triggers. There’s an incredible variety. The misleading photographs on Tinder, people who ride horses on the road … the self-service checkouts at supermarkets get a particularly severe battering.

  ‘It’s my fucking neighbours,’ Bill shouts, and I nearly jump out of my chair at the profanity being expelled with such venom from the mouth of this outwardly mild-mannered man. ‘I’m not sure whether they’re blind or just stupid. If the bin has ‘fifty-five’ written on it, it’s mine, so stop filling it up with your stinking nappies. If they’re not careful, they’re going to find them scattered around their front garden when they wake up one morning.’

  Well, I guess looks can be deceiving.

  I glance up at the clock and, as it finally strikes one, I’m like a kid when the bell rings for playtime, automatically reaching for my bag underneath the chair.

  Sam raises his hand. ‘Just before you go, we do a quick breathing exercise. We have a list of calming phrases up on the board there to help you, but feel free to use any of your own. So, we all make sure we’re sitting upright …’

  The group sit up straight in their chairs. Already conditioned, Jake follows suit.

  ‘We breathe deeply – from the diaphragm, not the chest. And then we slowly repeat our chosen phrase. Just keep repeating it while you breathe deeply for two minutes.’

  Everyone else begins. I look up at the list of phrases on the board. I’m in charge of my stress response. In every moment, peace is a choice. Stop and smell the roses. I feel like either I’m losing the plot or Ashton Kutcher is about to jump out, flash his winning smile and shout ‘Punk’d!’

  I mutter, ‘Only thirteen sessions to go, only thirteen sessions to go,’ under my breath and wait for the two minutes to be up. It’s like the hands of time have momentarily paused. Then there’s the reverberation of the triangle, like angel song straight from heaven, and everyone gathers their belongings and goes on their way.

  I swing my rucksack on to my shoulder and start to leave, but Jake holds out his hand as a barrier.

  ‘I don’t hit my son. Or my wife, for that matter.’ He rocks from one foot to the other.

  ‘It’s really none of my business.’

  ‘But I don’t. I know it didn’t look great, me grabbing my son like that, but it’s complicated. He’s …’ He pauses like he’s struggling to remember the word. ‘Challenging. I get stressed out sometimes and it’s “driving my wife away”. Her words. So I agreed to give this a go.’

  ‘OK. Well, I hope it works out for you.’

  I’m not sure why he’s being so insistent. Doth he protest too much? I don’t really care. I just want to leave.

  ‘Well, I’ll see you next week,’ I say.

  Jake’s head drops. ‘Yeah, see you.’

  Then I run out of there as fast as I can and don’t look back.

  Jake

  I take a deep breath in and try to mentally locate a calming phrase, while Alfie lies at my feet screaming, bang in the middle of the self-service tills in Waitrose.

  ‘I’m going to count to three and if you don’t get yourself up off the floor and follow me out the door, I’m going to use your baseball bat to smash up each and every one of your Lego models.’

  I crouch down and say it under my breath so that, hopefully, the people nearby won’t hear me reaching this new parenting low.

  Alfie doesn’t even acknowledge what I’ve said. ‘I want the cake with the red Smartie on it.’

  ‘Well, it’s yellow. Get over it. You’re very lucky to have a cake at all.’

  Spoilt brat.

  ‘I want the red one. I want the red one.’

  I place my card on the reader and pick up my shopping. Thanks to the fact I’m a stingy bastard and not willing to pay five pence for a plastic bag, I now have two boxes of Coco Pops, a four-pack of beer, a bottle of wine and a loaf of bread precariously tucked under both arms, a six-pint bottle of milk in one hand and a box containing a cake with a sodding yellow Smartie on it in the other. Therefore, my six-year-old son has me cornered. And he knows it. In fact, I’m pretty sure he’s taking great pleasure in it.

  I try a different approach. ‘Please, Alfie. I’ll find you a red Smartie at home and we’ll swap it.’

  Alfie shakes his head and kicks his legs. He knows I haven’t got any Smarties at home. He could tell me every treat we have and its exact location in the kitchen.

  A man in his sixties glares at Alfie and makes a show of having to step over him. As he does, one of Alfie’s flailing legs catches his trailing foot and nearly sends him flying.

  ‘I’m so sorry, mate. Are you OK?’

  I want to reach out to him, but I have no free hands. He turns around and shakes his head slowly. His face looks like he’s just found me parking in a disabled space.

  ‘I’d have got the belt if I’d behaved like that. You shouldn’t be pandering to him. You need to show him who’s boss.’

  I look at him for a minute, considering my response. The one that comes is not the one I planned. ‘And you need to fuck off.’

  He steps back, opens his mouth as if to speak and then closes it again. Then he turns and hurries out, with his shopping sensibly packed in a bag for life.

  I know everyone is staring at me. I know they’re thinking I’m a monster. They might just be r
ight. Sometimes it feels like that’s what I’ve become.

  I put the shopping down on the floor next to my screaming son, tuck the beer and the cake box under one arm and pick Alfie up and hold him under the other, like a roll of carpet. Struggling to the car, I shove him in through the back door and slam it, welcoming the muting effect it has on his shrieks. After throwing my two salvaged bits of shopping into the boot, I lean up against it with my head in my hands, unable to face getting in.

  ‘Excuse me.’

  ‘What?’ I snap.

  I look up to see a young woman with a little girl gripping on to her leg, terrified by the ogre growling at her mummy. The woman holds out a bag of shopping and it takes me a minute to realize what it is.

  ‘My little girl would be lost without her Coco Pops so I thought you might want this. Sorry to have disturbed you.’

  I’m not sure if it’s because she has a pretty face, or because this is probably the nicest thing anyone has done for me in a very long time, but I have a sudden desire to run off with this woman and never go home. To raise her cute, well-behaved little girl as if she were my own.

  ‘Thanks. And sorry for snapping at you just then. I thought you were just another well-meaning member of the public coming to tell me what a terrible job I’m doing.’

  She doesn’t commit to a full smile. ‘We’ve all been there. Take care.’

  I want to cry, ‘But you haven’t been there. This isn’t just an overtired tantrum. This is every day, about everything.’ Instead, I watch her walk across the car park, her daughter skipping along beside her, obediently holding her hand, and then I get into the car with my son, who I know won’t stop screaming about that bloody red Smartie for the entire fifteen-minute journey home.

  * * *

  ‘Can’t you hear he’s kicking off in there?’

  ‘Yes, I can. Can you?’

  Jemma sighs. ‘Please, Jake. I’ve really got to finish this presentation.’

  I’m not actually busy. I’m wasting precious minutes of my life scrolling through the inane stuff on my Facebook feed. How many motivational phrases can one person share in a day? One of my friends, or more accurately one of the people who is classed as my ‘friend’ on Facebook, must have shared over five riveting quotes every day this week. This morning’s corker was: ‘Make today count. You’ll never get it back.’ The irony makes me chuckle. I can just picture Tom sitting at his laptop, googling gems to share, really squeezing the life out of every moment.

  I stand up to go and see what minor problem has riled Alfie this time, but not before making sure I have the last word.

  ‘I have work to do too, you know? I’ve got to clean up all the stuff from the lunch I just cooked, then wash Alfie’s uniform for tomorrow, then tidy all the mess he made earlier when I did painting with him, and then prepare something for our tea. People might not appreciate it, but I’m doing a “job” here too.’

  I feel my balls shrink as I say it. I’m not quite sure how I got here. But here I am – a househusband. Whining about the dishes while my wife pays the bills. Don’t get me wrong. I’m a modern man. I was always comfortable with the fact my wife earned more than me. It didn’t threaten my masculinity that she paid more than half towards all our holidays or that quite often she would take me out for dinner. But now that I have nothing to bring to the table, I can’t help but feel inadequate using Jemma’s money to pay for a round on the rare occasion I go out with my mates. I hate that the most exciting thing I have to share with her these days is that bio washing liquid is so much more effective at getting off those hard-to-tackle stains than the non-bio stuff she always used. I wish I could still treat her occasionally, surprise her.

  Before we have the chance to rehash this daily argument, Alfie comes running in. His eyes are still red from all the tears he cried earlier, but he’s calmed down. For now.

  ‘I need help, Daddy. Why aren’t you coming?’

  Because I’m not your bitch.

  ‘I am, son. I’m coming now.’

  Alfie pulls my arm, dragging me into the lounge, and my heart sinks at the minuscule pieces spread out on the floor. I hate jigsaw puzzles. I’ll fight with foam swords and shields until the cows come home. I’m happy to read stories. To draw superheroes to be coloured in. But puzzles … just looking at them makes me break out in a cold sweat. And Alfie is a puzzle genius. He was completing hundred-piece ones with ease aged four.

  ‘Do we have to do a puzzle?’

  ‘You should be encouraging him,’ Jemma calls through from the other room. ‘It’s better than him playing that rubbish with you on the Xbox.’

  Because you’re providing him with an abundance of valuable play experiences.

  ‘Yeah, I suppose you’re right, darling.’

  Alfie quickly and efficiently picks out the edge pieces and starts to construct the sides of the puzzle. Once all four are done, he holds out his hands, as if to say ta-da.

  ‘Good job, Alfie. You’re so much better at this than me.’

  ‘Just keep trying, Daddy. You’ll get there.’

  I smile at one of my many trite pearls of wisdom being reflected back at me. ‘Thanks, little man.’

  ‘And you’re really good at making up superhero stories. Everyone is good at different things.’

  I ruffle Alfie’s hair. ‘You’re getting so wise in your old age.’

  Alfie screws up his face. ‘I’m only six.’

  I laugh. ‘You’re right. You are. And already wiser than me.’

  Alfie powers on, slotting in the middle pieces like a puzzle ninja, while I desperately search the floor for anything that looks vaguely like it might fit. After a minute or so, I spot part of the monster’s face and position it in the correct place. I’m pretty chuffed with myself. That is until Alfie explodes, launching the box across the room.

  ‘What’s the problem now, Alfie?’

  He tries to say something through the mass of tears.

  ‘Calm down. Use your words.’

  ‘You did my bit. I do the monsters.’

  ‘Will you just chill out? I only put one piece of puzzle in. It’s not that big a deal.’

  Alfie sweeps all the puzzle pieces across the floor.

  ‘Fine.’ I stand up and throw the piece I’m holding and it inadvertently hits him. ‘Do it your bloody self.’

  People used to marvel at my relaxed demeanour. You’re so laid-back you’re almost horizontal. I was the guy who would leave my A-level marking until 9 p.m. the night before the results were due but never sweat about not finishing it in time. I’d pack my stuff for a holiday on the morning of the flight, despite the fact Jemma had started packing hers at least a week before.

  But there is something about the utterly illogical behaviour of my son that makes me want to either throw something through a window or jump in my car and drive. To the sea. To the mountains. Anywhere things make sense.

  Because my son does not make sense.

  Not one bit.

  Alfie attaches himself to my ankle to hold me back. ‘Please, Daddy. Please don’t go.’

  I’m so sick of always ending up the bad guy. It feels like whatever I try, I get it wrong. I treat Alfie to a cake – it’s got the wrong colour Smartie on it. I help him with his puzzle – I do the wrong bit. I can never win. And failing every day takes its toll. Especially when it feels like I’m doing it all alone.

  I pull my leg free and storm into the dining room. ‘You fancy helping out at all?’

  ‘Oh, Jake. Give it a rest. I haven’t got time to get involved in your silly fights with Alfie. Just do the right pieces of the puzzle next time.’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  Jemma breathes out through her nostrils. ‘I’ve got a deadline, Jake. You need to deal with this.’

  ‘I am dealing with it. Every fricking day, I’m dealing with it.’

  Jemma shakes her head, like talking to me is an inconvenience she could do without, the extra car that pulls out when you’re already stu
ck in traffic. Picking up her laptop, she walks past me to go upstairs. I know that she will now remain in the study until I call her down for tea and it takes immense self-control not to take her a coffee and ‘accidentally’ spill it over the keys.

  When I put my head round the door of the lounge, Alfie has stopped crying. He is kneeling right in front of the television, his face almost touching the screen, watching his favourite episode of Spider-Man. He knows it so well that he mouths all the words and laughs before the funny thing has happened. For a moment, I want to pick him up and cradle him like I did when he was a baby, but then I look around to see the room is trashed. All the puzzle pieces are scattered across the floor, beneath the sofa, under the TV unit. The sofa cushions have been catapulted across the room and a drink has been knocked over on the hearth. Jemma would flip her lid if she saw the mess he’s made of her pristinely organized living room.

  ‘What have you done, Alfie?’

  Alfie looks up at me and covers his ears. ‘I’m not your friend, Daddy.’

  ‘Good. I don’t want to be your friend. Now, you need to tidy this mess up or no bedtime story tonight.’

  As threats go, it’s weak, but tiredness does nothing for my ingenuity. He has snot streaming across his face and his eyes are swollen from the earlier onslaught of tears. I know I should feel some kind of sympathy for my son, but at this moment I just want to run and hide.

  ‘And no more TV for a week.’ That’s better. Hit ’em where it hurts. I pick up the television controller and turn Spider-Man off, then, like I’m the child in the relationship, stomp up to my bedroom and slam the door, ignoring Alfie’s protests.

  When we first realized our bedroom door jammed and would only open with an almighty shove, Jemma put fixing it on the list of things for me to do. But now I’m glad nothing on that list ever gets done, because our bedroom has become my sanctuary. I used to find peace out in the ocean, gliding across a wave on my surfboard. Or flying down a mountain surrounded by white powder under intense blue skies. Now I have my bedroom. And a pillow to clasp tightly over my head. I can still hear Alfie on the other side of the door, kicking it and shouting my name, but it’s muffled and there’s a peace in knowing whatever he does, he can’t get in.