Saturdays at Noon

by Marks, Rachel

  I count my conkers again just in case I’ve lost one. Once I’ve counted one, I put it out on the bed like Daddy showed me so I don’t get muddled and count the same one twice. Sixty-three and one in the shell. Sixty-four. My favourite one is in the shell – it’s the biggest and it’s magic. I put it in there because then if anyone went to take it, they’d prick their fingers.

  I check my Joker clock. I have to press Joker’s head to make the light come on so that means it’s too early. Mummy says if I have to press his head to see the numbers it means I have to go back to sleep. It says five then two then three. I’m allowed to get up when it says seven then zero then zero. That means seven o’clock. I press Joker’s head again. Five then two then four. I can’t get back to sleep. I need Daddy to check my conkers in case I’ve counted them wrong. If I wake him up, he’ll be cross, but what if one’s been stolen and I don’t realize? Daddy will say I have to wait, but I can’t. I need to know now. I press Joker’s head again and then climb out of bed to go and wake him up.

  Emily

  I sort through the pile of post scattered across the rug in the communal hallway. It must be a couple of days’ worth, but no one except for me ever bothers to pick it up. I organize it into five piles, one for each flat, and leave them on the side next to the withering pot plant, gasping at me for water like a fugitive in the desert.

  My post consists of two handwritten envelopes. I open one to find a marketing pamphlet from a local MP, full of false promises, and I know what the other one is without even opening it. More false promises. Some years it’s there. Some it’s not. Sometimes, if I’m really lucky, she even puts a tenner in.

  I go back into my flat and sit on the window ledge, leaning out to smoke my cigarette. Ripping open the envelope, I find a clear illustration of the fact my mum knows nothing about me; it’s one of those awful tacky cards you get in Clintons with ‘To my wonderful daughter’ in a swirly embossed gold font on the front and a cheesy sentimental verse inside. Her handwriting is so poor I can barely read it.

  To my baby girl, it’s your birthday!!! I’m taking you out. Boston Tea Party 7pm, my treat. Love always, Mum x PLEASE COME!!!

  I last saw her just over a year ago. In some lame attempt to impress me, she suggested meeting in this stuck-up café where a coffee and a slice of cake cost the same as my weekly shop. As I walked in, everyone looked at me as if I was about to raid the till. To top it off, like holding up a banner saying ‘we got lost on the way to McDonald’s’, she staggered in twenty minutes late completely off her tits. I didn’t even stop to talk to her, just stormed out and went straight into Vodafone to get my mobile number changed. I haven’t spoken to her since. A few months ago, she sent me her six months’ clean coin and asked me to meet her at the park, but I didn’t. I got halfway there and then turned around and went home.

  Reaching up into the top of the wardrobe, I retrieve my shoebox-full-of-inane-sentimental-junk and put the card on top of my collection – other birthday cards from Mum and Nan, letters from childhood boyfriends, old photos of Alice and me with an array of hairstyle disasters, a swimming certificate from when I was seven and my foster mum took me to lessons, and a faded Polaroid of me as a newborn in Mum’s arms, Dad wearing the regulatory hospital hat and gown, grinning gawkily over her shoulder – the same large eyes and prominent jawline I see reflected in the mirror every day. I try to wedge the shoebox back into its former position but something else has slipped into its place, like Tetris, so I plonk it at the bottom with my extensive collection of trainers and my only childhood teddy bear.

  * * *

  Eating my Wilko’s pick-and-mix, a luxurious birthday treat, I settle into my seat. I’m not your typical ‘mini morning’ customer and get a few funny looks from the parents sitting near me, but I love kids’ films. I’m sure if I’d revealed this to my counsellor, she’d have had a field day psychoanalysing the reasons why – the desire to reinvent my childhood, a need for predictability and happy endings – but as far as I’m aware, without delving too deeply into my subconscious, I just like the bright colours and catchy songs. Counselling was a total waste of time. School made me go, because I kept bunking off and they thought it was because I had unresolved issues from my time in foster care. I kept trying to tell them that that was the good bit – it was being returned to Mum that was the problem, and I couldn’t be bothered to talk about that – but they didn’t listen. I quit after a few sessions. They tried to convince me to go back, but I didn’t.

  On the other side of the aisle, I notice a little boy counting out each piece of his popcorn on to the arm of his chair. It’s exactly what I used to do when I was little. On the rare occasion I was given a treat, like Smarties or chocolate buttons, I’d first check how many I had and then count them down every time I ate one, as if it helped them to last longer. The boy’s dad says something to him and then scoops all the popcorn back into the bag, probably reprimanding him for making a mess or exposing himself to germs. Like a trapped bird, the boy starts flapping around in his chair, shouting his objection. His dad tries to quieten him, even putting his hand over the boy’s mouth, but it doesn’t work so he picks him up, holding him out at arm’s length like he’s infected with a highly contagious disease, and carries him out of the cinema. Poor kid.

  The film starts. It’s Trolls. Exactly what the doctor ordered. A Technicolor land and the dulcet tones of Justin Timberlake to lose myself in. About ten minutes into the film, the boy and his dad return, along with a couple of other irritating halfwits who can’t manage to arrive before the film starts, despite the fact, with the numerous adverts and trailers, it’s over half an hour later than the listed time. One of them, infuriatingly, has a seat at the other end of the row I’m in so I have to re-close my pick-and-mix, take my jacket off my knee and squish my body as far back into my seat as possible. All so that the man with no time-management skills and his no doubt soon-to-follow-in-his-footsteps son can get past.

  Once they’re no longer inconsiderately blocking my view, I see the popcorn child walking up the central aisle facing me and I realize it’s the little boy from anger management, accompanied by Jake. I duck down as low as possible in my chair, but luckily Jake seems too distracted with stifling his son to notice me.

  After the film – great music but a slightly questionable message: that the ‘ugly’ troll needs a makeover in order to win the boy – I treat myself to a hot chocolate from the cinema bar. All the tables are empty, probably because the drinks are overpriced and the girl making them is slow and sour-faced, but it’s my birthday so I can’t just go home and sit around waiting until it’s time to visit Alice (as if having hot chocolate makes my solo trip to the cinema somehow less tragic).

  I take my pick of the tables and sit bang in the middle. On my phone, I read the birthday messages on my ‘wall’ from people I barely ever see. I can just imagine them getting the reminder – ‘It’s Emily Davies’ birthday today. Send her good thoughts!’ – and succumbing to the virtual guilt trip to post a celebratory greeting.

  Suddenly, Jake appears with a tray of goodies and plonks it on to a table nearby. I stare at my phone in that preposterous way people do, as if not looking at someone makes you somehow invisible. But then, out the corner of my eye, I see he’s walking over so I look up, feigning surprise.

  ‘I thought it was you,’ he says. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Surprisingly, I’ve just been watching a film.’

  ‘Yeah, sorry, dumb question.’

  In his defence, it’s not a dumb question, more a turn of phrase, a stereotypical greeting. But something about Jake brings out my facetious side.

  Alfie looks up at me with a mystified expression. ‘You’re the one that gave me the biscuit.’

  ‘Well remembered. I am.’

  ‘And Daddy took it off me,’ he says, accompanied with a frown.

  I smile.

  Jake gestures to his table and says with as much conviction as he can muster, ‘Join us
, if you want.’

  I’m well aware neither of us wants to spend the next ten minutes thinking up things to talk about and then fabricating an excuse to leave.

  ‘It’s fine. I’ll let you enjoy your drinks in peace. It was nice to see you again, Alfie.’

  ‘I could show you my Lego figures!’ Alfie says it like he’s offering me an all-expenses-paid holiday to the Caribbean.

  I’m not usually that fussed about kids. I mean, I love Billy, Alice’s little boy, but that’s because he’s part of her. Usually when I encounter children, they’re either whining or bashing their trolley into my ankles. But there’s a certain charm to Alfie. I can’t quite put my finger on what it is, but it’s hard to resist.

  ‘Well, in that case …’ I pick up my cup and my remaining sweets and sit down on the chair next to Alfie.

  He pulls his figures out one by one. They are in what was once a vitamin pot and, looking at the worn-out label, I’m guessing it travels everywhere with him.

  ‘This one’s Hulk, this one’s Martian Manhunter, this one’s Braniac.’

  I hold out my hands and he places the figures into them.

  ‘This one’s –’

  ‘Spider-Man. I know that one.’

  He looks at me for a moment, and I’m not sure if he’s impressed that I know who the figure is or annoyed at me for interrupting him.

  ‘How did you know that?’

  ‘I’m secretly a bit of a superhero fan.’

  ‘This one’s my favourite,’ he says, putting it on the table while he takes the others off me and puts them back into the pot. ‘Loki.’

  ‘Thor’s brother.’

  He shoots me a puzzled look. ‘Yeah, that’s right.’

  ‘I thought Antman was your favourite,’ Jake says. So drab is his personality, I’d forgotten he was even there.

  ‘No, Daddy. You’re so silly. That was last week. I told you yesterday it was Loki,’ he says in an exasperated tone. Then he turns to me and shakes his head. ‘He never listens.’

  I imagine it’s something he’s heard his mummy say, and he’s perfected the expression that accompanies it.

  Jake pinches Alfie’s shoulder muscles and he giggles. ‘I do listen, monkey. It’s just hard for an old man like me to keep up.’

  Suddenly distracted, Alfie points to my paper bag on the table. ‘Did you have pickle mix?’

  ‘Oh, pick-and-mix. Yes, I did.’

  Alfie crosses his arms. ‘I wanted pickle mix, Daddy. It’s not fair.’

  ‘You had popcorn and you’ve now got a huge slice of cake. I think you’ve done pretty well.’

  Alfie’s expression doesn’t change.

  ‘I’ll let you in on a little secret, Alfie,’ I whisper. ‘I only had pick-and-mix today because it’s my birthday. I wouldn’t normally have it.’

  Jake looks up from his phone. ‘Oh, happy birthday.’

  He says it in the way someone says, ‘That’s nice,’ when you’ve been telling them about something and they haven’t listened to a word you’ve said.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘I’m six now,’ Alfie says, putting his hands on his waist. ‘It was my birthday yesterday.’

  ‘Wow!’

  ‘Not yesterday, little man, but it was a few weeks ago,’ Jake says.

  ‘So now you’re six. Well, that is a super-special age. Happy birthday for a few weeks ago.’

  ‘I had a Batman cake. And I got Jokerland.’

  ‘Sounds amazing. Did you have a party?’

  Jake visibly winces and I get the feeling it’s a touchy subject. ‘We had a family one, didn’t we?’

  ‘Well, that wasn’t really a party.’ Alfie says it as if his dad has no idea what the word ‘party’ actually means.

  I try to change the subject. ‘So tell me all about Jokerland.’

  ‘Well …’

  It turns out Alfie can tell me every single detail of his new Lego set, down to the individual colours of certain pieces. I love how he talks, his facial expressions and hand movements somehow out of sync with his words. He’s a stunning-looking boy. Huge rich-chocolate eyes and thick long eyelashes. His hair is straighter than Jake’s and golden blond with natural highlights.

  Once Alfie’s talked non-stop about his Lego set for over five minutes, Jake puts his empty mug on to the tray and lifts Alfie’s cup and wipes underneath it with a napkin.

  ‘I think that’s enough about Jokerland now, little man.’ He puts his hand on Alfie’s shoulder, but Alfie shrugs him off.

  ‘No, I haven’t told him about the cannon yet.’

  ‘It’s not “him”, Alfie. Remember I always tell you, girls are “her”, and her name is Emily.’

  Alfie doesn’t respond, just presents his dad with a laughably cross face.

  ‘It’s fine, honestly. I’ve been called a lot worse.’

  Jake forces a smile and unhooks their coats from the backs of their chairs. ‘Not everyone wants to know every detail of every Lego set you own, kiddo. Come on, we should be getting back.’

  ‘I am not going until I’ve finished telling him about my Lego.’

  I can see it on Jake’s face, the switch, as if he’s a werewolf that’s just spotted the light of the moon and realizes he can no longer hide his true self.

  ‘We’re going now. Nice to see you, Emily.’

  ‘Your Lego sounds amazing, Alfie,’ I say, trying to counter the fact his dad’s being a grumpy git. ‘In fact, I might have to go and buy some myself.’

  ‘You won’t be able to afford it. It’s so ’spensive.’

  I smile at this clearly regurgitated information. ‘Maybe I could just come and see yours one day, then?’

  It’s just a throwaway comment, I’m trying to be kind, but I can tell by the look on Jake’s face I’ve said the wrong thing again. It seems there’s no pleasing some people.

  ‘Can he come now please, Daddy?’

  Jake shakes his head. ‘It’s “she”. And, no, Emily does not want to come and see your Lego right now.’

  Alfie writhes in his seat like he’s got worms. ‘He does want to. Don’t you?’ The volume of his voice is steadily increasing and Jake shoots a look at the door, as if plotting his escape.

  ‘I can’t come today, Alfie.’ I look directly into his eyes. ‘I have to go and see a friend and I’m late and she’ll be sad if I don’t go now.’

  Alfie’s eyes dart around my face. ‘But you could come after you’ve seen your friend, you could …’

  I cut him short. ‘Not today, Alfie.’ I enunciate each word slowly like I’m giving directions to a foreigner. ‘But I will talk to your daddy to sort out a time I can come and see the Lego. And, in the meantime, can you do something for me? Can you take some photos of Jokerland on Daddy’s phone and send them to me?’

  He doesn’t answer immediately but then he looks up at Jake. ‘Can we do that, Daddy?’

  At this point, I’m pretty sure Jake would say yes to donating his kidneys just to keep Alfie quiet. ‘Yep, sounds good.’

  ‘Fantastic. I’ll write down my number and you and Daddy can send me the pictures later.’

  With a face like a slapped arse, Jake reaches into his rucksack and pulls out a pen. I scribble my phone number down on a napkin, holding it out for Jake to take, but Alfie quickly intercepts.

  ‘I’ll look after it. I’ll put it in my special pocket.’ He looks around for his coat and yanks it out of Jake’s hand. ‘Look, it’s got a zip so nothing can fall out.’ He squeezes the napkin into his pocket before zipping it up.

  ‘Perfect. Right, I have to go. Thank you for showing me your Lego, Alfie.’

  Alfie doesn’t reply and Jake pokes him. ‘Say bye, Alfie.’

  ‘Bye.’ Alfie barely looks up. Instead, he’s preoccupied with opening and closing the pocket on his coat, pulling out the napkin a little each time he does and then pushing it back in.

  * * *

  ‘Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday, dear Emily, happy
birthday to you!’

  Alice’s husband, Ben, carries the caterpillar cake while she walks along beside him carrying Billy, who has a wide toothless grin planted on his face. He’s clearly excited by the simultaneous combination of chocolate cake, candles and singing. He bobs up and down in Alice’s arms and attempts to clap his hands together, but they don’t fully meet.

  Ben holds the cake in front of me so that I can blow out my candles, then puts it on the worktop, hugs me and kisses me on the cheek, the wiry hair of the beard he is growing (not his best look) tickling my face.

  ‘Happy birthday, Em. Even more gorgeous with every year that passes.’

  ‘Thanks, Ben. You’re an excellent liar. And thank you both for the cake. You really don’t have to do this every year.’

  ‘Nonsense. It’s another excuse for cake. You know I’d never turn that down.’ Alice wraps her free arm around me, and Billy squeals as we squash him between us.

  ‘Sorry, gorgeous,’ I say and kiss Billy on the head. He has a smattering of silky ginger hair and smells like talcum powder. For a second, a baby’s face flashes through my brain – a mop of dark hair like Alex’s and my blue eyes – but I push it into some distant corner so that it’s a tiny spark, just able to sit and flicker but not enough to really burn.

  ‘Let me take the little monkey off your hands so you ladies can chat.’ Ben takes Billy out of Alice’s arms. ‘Come on, let’s go and do something manly, like racing cars or bashing the hammer bench.’

  ‘See you in a bit, my gorgeous boy,’ Alice says, lifting Billy’s top and blowing raspberries on his tummy. She’s such a natural mother. Despite having the pick of practically any career and finally settling on law, she only ever really wanted to be a mother. I always envied her surety. The way she knew exactly what would make her happy, complete. I’ve still got no idea.

  ‘What about me?’ Ben puts his arm around Alice’s waist, pulls her into him and kisses her.

  I look away, not wanting to intrude on their moment.

  ‘I’m sorry, baby. You know you don’t get a look in now this handsome chap has arrived,’ Alice teases.