Saturdays at Noon

by Marks, Rachel

  When it’s been dunked for at least fifteen seconds, I put the test on my bedside table, set a timer and sit on my bed. At times like these, I always feel the best thing to do is to write a list. The ‘why being pregnant would be a disaster’ side is pretty easy to fill. Useless married baby daddy. No money. Barely room in my flat to swing a cat. Having to give up alcohol. Ability, or lack thereof, to look after a baby. The list goes on. Then, just as I finish writing the one and only pro I can think of, the timer starts beeping. With my heart in my throat, I scoot across the bed and force my eyes to look at the test.

  A single blue line stares back at me. I hold it up to the light, searching frantically for a second line as if I want it to be there. But it’s not. And I don’t. I only have to look at my list, like a one-legged man, to know this is, without doubt, the best outcome. And that this feeling in my chest, like a sinking stone, is just a strange form of relief.

  * * *

  As I walk down the dingy corridor of the block of retirement flats my nan lives in, the yellow strip lights, dated carpets and smell of overcooked vegetables make me instantly depressed (brimming with joy as I was when I arrived). I knock on her door but she doesn’t answer, so I let myself in.

  Nan’s leaning forward in her chair and shouting at the television. She’s incensed. Apparently the detective in the murder mystery she’s glued to is missing a vital and obvious clue. It’s called suspense, Nan. They do that on purpose.

  I touch her lightly on the shoulder so as not to scare her. ‘Hi, Nan, I’ve brought Chinese.’ I hold up the plastic bag containing the food.

  She looks surprised, as she always does when she sees me standing here, despite the fact I’ve been visiting her every week for the past six years, since we met at Dad’s funeral. Then she crinkles her nose as if detecting a particularly repugnant smell. ‘What have you done to your hair? You look like one of them queers.’

  I run my hand over my bristly head. ‘Nice to see you too, Nan. And they’re called gay or homosexual. You can’t say queer any more.’

  ‘I’m eighty-six. I’ll say what I bloody well want.’

  I decide to let it go and smile. ‘I guess I just fancied a change.’

  ‘You want a change, you get a perm or something. Dye it a different colour. Don’t make yourself look like a bloody cancer patient.’

  I smile again. ‘I’ll just go and sort your food for you.’

  ‘Oh, you know I only like sweet and sour, don’t you, love?’ Her face is etched with concern.

  ‘I know, Nan.’ I place my hand on top of hers. ‘Don’t worry, that’s what I’ve got.’

  ‘And you haven’t got that strange eggy rice stuff, have you?’

  ‘No, Nan. Chips. Just how you like it. I’ll put it out on a plate for you.’

  I go through to the tiny kitchen and manage to find two clean plates in the cupboard. There’s a huge pile of washing-up that’s clearly been there for days and I make a mental note to talk to the staff again. They mentioned that they ‘weren’t really there for that sort of thing’, but what exactly are they there for? Twiddling their thumbs until it’s time to do their daily rounds or some poor old biddy’s had a fall? It’s not acceptable leaving Nan with rotting food in her kitchen.

  I take the Chinese through, slide out Nan’s lap table and place her plate on it before sitting on the adjacent sofa with mine on my lap.

  ‘Thanks for this, Em, love.’ Nan scoops up some chicken, spilling sweet and sour sauce down her chin as she eats. It makes me want to reach out and hold her. ‘So have you still not found a nice boy to be spending your evenings with?’

  ‘Rather than have dinner with you? No way.’

  ‘Seriously, Em, an attractive girl like you. You must have boys flocking around you.’

  ‘Oh yeah, I’m beating them off with a stick.’ Inwardly, I smile at the accuracy of my comment.

  ‘Mind you, with that hair, I’m not surprised you’re sitting here with me. You look like that Gail Whatshername. She was such a pretty thing till she got rid of all her hair. You know, the one that used to present Top of the Pops?’

  ‘She didn’t get rid of it, Nan. She has alopecia.’

  ‘Well, what’s your excuse?’

  I wanted to become invisible. I remember coming home from the pub, still shaking from what happened, struggling to hold the scissors as I hacked at my jaw-length bob, followed by the razor, all the time watching myself in the mirror, the tears falling alongside the clumps of hair.

  ‘I don’t know. Poor judgement?’

  ‘You want to get married, don’t you, love? Have babies and all that?’

  I shrug. ‘I guess so. Just not found my Prince Charming yet, I suppose.’

  Nan looks at me like I’ve said I’m waiting for a million-pound lottery win. ‘Don’t be a plonker, Em. There’s no such thing as Prince Charming. Just find a half-decent one and hold on to him for dear life.’ She puts a chip in her mouth and chews it while she talks. ‘I know you never met your Grandpa Joe, but he was a mardy old bugger half the time. Used to argue like cat and dog, we did. But he went to work every day. He paid the bills. He never hit me or had any floozies. That’s all you can ask for.’

  ‘You’re probably right.’

  ‘I’m always right. You want kids, you need to get on with it.’

  I inadvertently touch my tummy. ‘I’m not sure I’d be a very good mum.’

  ‘What are you on about? You’d be fine. You do the best you can and the rest is just luck. I probably should’ve given your dad a few more clips around the ear but I tried my best. He was fed and watered, he had a roof over his head and clothes on his back. If it hadn’t been for the drugs, I think he would’ve been all right. He was a good boy really. But you can’t wrap them up in cotton wool forever, can you? Anyway, you couldn’t do a worse job than that mother of yours, could you? No offence, love.’

  It’s a fair point. She’d be hard to beat in the ‘World’s Worst Mum’ awards. ‘None taken.’

  Nan pushes her food around the plate with her fork. ‘I think I’ve had enough now. Be a love and put it in a bowl for tomorrow, will you?’

  She’s barely eaten any, but I take it into the kitchen, add the remains of mine to it, wrap it up and put it in the fridge for her. I do the washing-up and quickly and quietly put the things away in the cupboards so she won’t notice what I’ve done.

  ‘Got any plans this week?’ I call through from the kitchen.

  ‘Well, Amy’s coming to tidy up my hair on Tuesday. And it’s Betty’s funeral on Thursday, Bert’s on Friday. I might as well just take up a permanent position in that church until it’s my turn.’

  I walk back through to the lounge and start to collect my things, trying to ignore the lurking thought that one day Nan will be out of my life and then I’ll have no real family at all. ‘Don’t be silly, Nan, plenty of years left in you. Look, I better get going now. I need to sort the flat before work in the morning. Anything else you need?’

  ‘Some great-grandchildren?’

  I kiss Nan on the cheek, her skin soft and papery. ‘You take it easy.’

  ‘Not much choice about that these days, love. See you soon?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And grow that bloody hair back, will you?’

  * * *

  With the vastness of the night looming ahead of me like an exam I haven’t studied for, I text my best friend, Alice.

  Can you squeeze in one drink at the wine bar? xx

  A few minutes and another glass of wine later, my phone buzzes.

  Would love to but I’m in bed already. Billy’s teething and my boobs seem the only way to placate him. Argh! Oh, how I miss sleep, boobs that don’t leak at the mere sound of the cat crying, my sanity, oh, did I mention sleep …? Can’t wait to see you on your birthday. Love you xx

  I text a reply.

  To be fair, the little man has a point. They’re great boobs. Love you too xx

  I scroll through the rest of t
he names in my phone – a bunch of people I never talk to – resist the urge to call Alex and then, because I’m clearly a glutton for self-torture, open Facebook. It really should come with a health warning: do not open if drunk, angry, mildly depressed – basically in any state other than thinking your life is as perfect as humanly possible, and even then it might convince you you’re wrong. If I’m not careful, I’m going to end up putting a sarcastic comment on one of the many wonderfully cute baby photos that pop up endlessly on my timeline, or posting one of those cryptic feeling confused statuses or, even worse, the classic I know most of you won’t read to the end of this post but if you did, you’d see it was full of self-pitying, attention-seeking crap so I’d trust your initial judgement and not bother. I think the safest thing to do is to turn off my phone, go to bed and binge on Netflix.

  * * *

  When I wake up in the middle of the night and can’t get back to sleep, I switch on my lamp and locate my pregnancy pros and cons list in my bedside table drawer. The one and only pro sits on the page, ridiculous in its purely emotion-based rationale, and yet it is the reason that jumps out at me, lying in my bed with acres of space around me. You will love it and it will love you back.

  Jake

  ‘Hi, everyone, I’m Emily.’

  One of her legs is propped up on the other and she jigs it up and down, frantic, like a crack addict in rehab. It’s infuriating. It’s like sitting next to Alfie – whether we’re eating, playing a game or reading a story, he’s always moving, wriggling, falling off the chair, walking his legs up the wall. Just sit still. Her eyes are the same, wandering around the room, like she’s searching for something but can’t find it.

  ‘Look, I might as well be honest. I don’t need to be here.’

  An audible sigh travels around the room.

  ‘No, I’m not in denial or anything. I really don’t have an anger problem.’

  The hostility in the room grows like the tension at a football match, steadily rising before it explodes and a brawl breaks out between the opposing fans. Despite the fact she didn’t pull any punches when attacking me last week, I almost feel sorry for her. It’s not nice to see a person being vilified en masse, however unlikeable that person may be. And to be fair, I feel the same. Yes, I get angry, but so would anyone walking in my shoes.

  Watching Emily, I can’t deny she’s striking. She has one of those faces you can’t help studying. Maybe because you don’t see many people that look like her. Her eyes are huge, almost creepily so, exaggerated by the lack of hair and the heavy black eyeliner. It wouldn’t surprise me if she’d been a Goth at school. I can picture her in black, sitting in the corner of the common room, listening to heavy metal from a ghetto blaster and slashing her arms at the weekend. Today, she’s wearing an oversized stripy knitted jumper and jeans that look like they’ve been sprayed on to her stick-thin legs. Against her skin-tight jeans, her bulky leather biker boots appear almost clown-like.

  Sam steps in. ‘Can you tell us why you are here, Emily? No one is here to judge you.’

  Surveying the glaring faces, I’m not sure this is strictly true, but Sam’s read the mood in the room and is doing his best to improve it.

  ‘Perhaps I could go first?’ I say, raising my hand.

  Emily looks as if I’ve just saved her from the death penalty.

  ‘Would that be OK, Emily?’ Sam asks.

  She nods and I take centre stage.

  ‘Hi, everyone, I’m Jake.’ They all mouth hellos back. ‘A bit like Emily, I didn’t really think I had an anger problem before I came here. I’m still not sure if I do.’

  It’s a risky strategy, relating to the black sheep, but I’m pretty sure I can make it work in my favour. It’s one of the few bonuses of having been a teacher: I’m used to performing to a large group of people. The fact that they’re angry adults instead of apathetic teenagers hopefully won’t make too much difference. Successful public speaking is like mixing a cocktail. You need the right balance of confidence and self-deprecation, a drop of humour and a large swig of humility.

  ‘My wife asked me to come, well, she told me to come, and any married men here will know that you do what you’re told.’

  Smiles from both the men and the women. A positive start.

  ‘And maybe she’s right. Maybe I do have a problem. I do feel angry a lot.’

  Because my wife is self-obsessed and my son belongs in a mental hospital.

  ‘And, yeah, it makes me say things and act in a way that I’m not proud of. I could be a better husband, I’m sure, and I could definitely be a better father to my son. He’s just turned six – lovely but totally maddening. So whether or not I’ve got an “official” anger problem, I know that I could be better. I’m sure all of you will be able to help me find some ways to do that.’

  At this point I give my most sincere-looking smile. To my relief, the room reciprocates the gesture. Except for Emily. I’m well aware it’s going to take a lot more than a semi-heartfelt speech to get a smile out of her. I’m not sure she’s even capable of it; maybe her face has a design flaw that means it just won’t move in that way.

  The focus of this week’s session is how to respond in a non-aggressive way to the triggers we identified last week. Everyone has chosen to sit in the same spaces as before so, for my sins, I’m paired with Emily.

  ‘Now I know you don’t have an anger problem, so I guess we’ll have to work on my triggers?’

  Emily glowers at me. OK, there may have been a hint of sarcasm in my tone, but you’d think she’d at least be a little bit grateful that I just saved her arse. ‘Can’t wait.’

  ‘Right, well, I suppose my main triggers are my wife and my son.’

  ‘The fact they exist?’

  God, this girl. She even makes my wife seem tolerable.

  ‘No. There are specific things that they do. Not just them in their entirety.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘My son is very particular. He has to have everything done a certain way, he is unable to wait for anything, impossible to reason with …’

  ‘Sounds pretty standard.’

  ‘You got kids, then?’

  Emily shakes her head and something in her face changes, like she’s thinking about something she doesn’t want to, or maybe she’s just planning her next insult. ‘Maybe you just need to understand him better.’

  If you didn’t have to be the other person in conversation with her, Emily would be fascinating. There’s no filter, as if she’s entirely unaware she’s being a bitch.

  ‘I do understand him. I’ve spent every single day of the past six years with him.’

  Except, I don’t. Even after all these years, I still can’t work him out.

  Emily holds both hands up. ‘All right. Chill out. Bloody hell, you really do have an anger problem, don’t you?’

  I’m surprised to find myself laughing. ‘You just keep attacking me. I feel the constant need to defend myself.’

  ‘I was only trying to help. If you could see where the behaviour was coming from, perhaps it wouldn’t piss you off so much. Just an idea.’

  ‘Maybe. What makes you such an expert, anyway? You doing some kind of child psychology degree?’

  ‘I’m not claiming to be an expert. That’s just the sort of crap they spout in counselling. Never made any difference to me, but it might help you out.’

  She starts rummaging in her bag, taking stuff out and dumping it on the floor in an attempt to reach whatever it is she is looking for. I want to ask her why she’s been in counselling but I can tell she’ll only give me a glib answer. She’s happy to delve into my private life and tear shreds off me, but I reckon all hell would break loose if I did the same to her. Pulling out her camera, she extracts a piece of chewing gum from the bottom of her bag.

  ‘Nice bit of kit.’ It’s a Canon 5D Mark IV – the camera I’ve always wanted but never had the talent to justify. I feel guilty for thinking it, but I did not expect her to have a camera li
ke that.

  ‘Yeah, it’s not bad.’ She puts everything away and pushes the bag under her chair.

  ‘Not bad? Are you a professional photographer, then?’

  Emily shakes her head. ‘I did a bit of family photography for a bit, but nothing much. It was a gift.’

  ‘Wow, that’s a pretty extravagant gift.’

  ‘It was more like a hand-me-down. A friend had bought a new one so he gave this one to me.’

  ‘Well, I’m a definite case of “all the gear, no idea”. I’ve got a 6D and a load of lenses but I’m no good at it, really. I got carried away buying stuff when Alfie was born, but I’ve still not managed to get a decent photo of him.’

  ‘I see. Makes a bit more sense now.’ Emily unwraps the piece of gum and pops it in her mouth. ‘I did think it was a bit creepy how you were ogling my personal belongings.’

  I smile. ‘Don’t worry. Your luck’s not so bad that you’ve ended up sitting next to a wife beater and a thief.’

  Emily’s cheeks colour, a tiny glimmer of humanity inside her prickly shell. ‘So how come you’re really here, then? There must be a reason your wife made you come?’

  I consider lying but there doesn’t seem much point. ‘I got into a fight with a parent at the school gates.’

  I shouldn’t have pushed Matt. I’m not proud of it. Well, my inner youth is slightly proud. I was never ‘radical’ enough to be involved in a fight when I was younger. But I’m aware it wasn’t my finest choice. It’s just that he stands in the playground all superior with his perfect little boy, George. The child who will always win first place at sport’s day and receive the best player trophy at football club week after week. And every day, I have to quell an intense desire to punch Matt. So when he started mouthing off to me because Alfie had apparently pushed George, I just lost it.