Saturdays at Noon

by Marks, Rachel

  ‘Emily, I thought it was you. Are you waiting for someone?’

  ‘Um no, just having a quick drink before heading on. It’s my birthday. Some friends are throwing me a party.’ I lie, because the truth – that I’m spending the night of my twenty-fifth birthday sitting alone in a crappy pub – is just too humiliating to admit.

  ‘Oh, happy birthday. Can I join you for one?’ Sam asks.

  My head is beginning to spin and I’m not sure I’m in a fit state to have a sensible conversation with my group leader, but I don’t feel like I can say no. ‘Yeah, of course.’

  ‘Do you want another drink?’

  Absolutely. I put my hand over the top of my glass. ‘No, I’m good with this one. Thanks.’

  Sam orders a beer and Andy looks him up and down while pouring it for him.

  ‘So have you had a good birthday so far?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s been brilliant. I went to …’ I’m not sure what happens mid-sentence. Maybe it’s the wine, or Sam’s caring eyes and the fact he’s trained to help people open up to him, but suddenly I’m sick of the bullshit. ‘I just met up with my mum. It didn’t go well.’

  He nods slowly, a quiet realization filling his face, and it suddenly dawns on me that Sam probably knows a lot more about me than I’d like him to.

  ‘Do you want to talk about it?’

  Yes, and no.

  ‘I walked out. She cried. She’d organized a birthday cake. They brought it out as I was leaving so now I feel guilty, and that makes me hate her more. It’s been a great birthday.’

  ‘I’m sorry. But well done for going to meet her. It can’t have been easy.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I finish my wine. ‘I bet I don’t come out very well on paper, do I?’

  Sam shakes his head. ‘You come out just fine.’

  I raise my eyebrows. ‘Really?’

  ‘I’ve learnt not to judge anyone by what I read about them.’

  ‘So I do come across badly?’

  Sam adjusts his position on his bar stool. ‘I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant …’

  I place my hand on his arm. ‘It’s OK. I’m winding you up.’

  Sam tilts his head towards my empty glass. ‘Well, can I buy you a drink now, birthday girl?’

  ‘I probably shouldn’t.’

  ‘Come on, think of it as a present.’

  I’m surprised how laid-back he is, how completely non-judgemental. It’s refreshing.

  ‘OK, go on then. Thanks.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  Sam raises his hand and Andy skulks over, pouring the drinks Sam orders with a sour look on his face. I’m not sure what’s got into him, but if I didn’t know better, I’d think he’s pissed off I’m drinking with another man.

  When Andy’s out of earshot, I say, ‘Sorry about him. He’s not normally this grumpy.’

  ‘We all have our off days. Not a problem.’

  ‘Really? I don’t believe that for a second. I can’t imagine you ever being grumpy.’

  I fear the wine may be loosening my tongue.

  ‘It happens. Occasionally. If I forget to get something out the freezer in the morning for tea, that sort of thing.’

  Although I initially found Sam’s impenetrable happiness off-putting, it’s uplifting to be around him. Maybe it’s the beer goggles, but he has a lovely face – not exactly striking, but warmly handsome.

  ‘Have you always been this happy?’

  Sam looks over my shoulder and, when his eyes return to meet mine, there’s a sorrow in them that looks entirely out of place. ‘Not exactly. My mum and dad died in a car accident when I was twenty-one. I started lashing out, got into a few nasty scuffles and one night I picked on the wrong guy.’ Sam lifts up his top to reveal a long straight scar across his stomach. ‘I realized that I could ruin the days I had left or try to make the most of each and every one. So I did that instead.’

  ‘I’m sorry about your mum and dad. That must have been horrendous.’

  ‘It was. But the way I look at it is at least I had twenty-one idyllically happy years with them. Not everyone has such a great start.’

  I wonder whether the notes he has about me are just a brief summary of dates or whether they go into detail about the events of my crappy life.

  ‘I guess not.’ I spin the stem of my glass. ‘So is this against the rules, socializing with me outside of class?’

  Sam shrugs. ‘I don’t think so. I’m not sure. It’s never come up before. Well, I won’t tell anyone if you won’t?’

  I pull an imaginary zip across my lips and Sam smiles.

  ‘It’s nice to talk to you, anyway. You don’t say much in group.’

  ‘The things I have said haven’t exactly gone down well. I thought Sharon was going to throttle me last week.’

  Sam smiles, but he looks uncomfortable, like he doesn’t want to say anything unprofessional. ‘Give them time. You’ll be OK. It might help to tell them why you’re there, you know, when you feel ready to, that is.’

  ‘Maybe. Or it might make them hate me more.’

  ‘They don’t hate you. They just don’t know you. Let them in. You might find them worth getting to know.’ Sam climbs down off his bar stool. ‘Anyway, I’d better let you get to that party of yours.’

  I wish I hadn’t lied about having somewhere else to go. Sam’s presence is like being wrapped in a fleece blanket and I don’t want to be thrown out into the cold, to face another night with only my TV remote for company.

  ‘Yeah, I expect they’re wondering where I am.’

  Sam drinks the last of his pint, then, taking me by surprise, he kisses me on the cheek and I feel it going red. ‘Tell them you ended up having a drink with a handsome stranger.’ He smiles, puts on his coat and stands up, placing his hand on my shoulder. ‘Oh, and just between us, I think the guy probably deserved everything he got.’

  I’m not sure what to say. ‘Thanks. And thanks for the drink.’

  ‘You’re welcome. Have a great night.’

  As soon as Sam’s gone, I order a taxi, finish my drink and then stagger outside to wait.

  * * *

  On the way home, before I can think clearly about what I’m doing, I ask the driver to drop me off at the vodka bar. I head straight for the bar and order myself a shot. Sure enough, after I’ve been sitting there for about ten minutes, some loser approaches me and starts buying me drinks. I let him; I even flirt a little bit to ensure they keep coming. I know that I will end up going back to his flat, that we will have crap sex and he won’t make me come. That I’ll lie there for a few minutes and he’ll tell me how incredible I am and ask for my number, even though he has no intention of calling me, not that I’d answer if he did. But at least I won’t be lying in my bed alone, thinking about Alex or Mum or all the other stuff I struggle to block out. So for now I drink as much as I can, so that the memory of tonight will be like a photo I’ve taken with too high an aperture and too low a shutter speed, where you can only make out the shapes and none of the details.

  * * *

  The next morning, I stumble in through my front door. The telltale cramps come first and then later, like a belated birthday gift, my period arrives in full force. I text Alice.

  The witch arrived x

  I follow it with a smiley face, despite the fact my face as I’m sending it is anything but. Then I scroll through the photographs of Alex on my phone, deleting them one by one, not bothering to even try to stop the tears flooding down my cheeks.

  Jake

  ‘Daddy, can we go and buy the batteries now?’

  ‘Go back to sleep, Alfie.’ I turn away from him and pull the cover up over my shoulders.

  ‘You said we could get them today.’

  He’s slapping my back. My eyelashes feel like they’re ripping as I try to open my eyes. I can just about make out it’s still dark outside.

  ‘It’s the middle of the night, dude. You’re going to be ill if you keep doing this. Go back to sleep.
’

  ‘No. I need the batteries now. You promised.’

  I’ve got no idea what he’s talking about. I don’t recall making any promises, especially not about batteries, but I was probably just trying to redirect another storm. I pad the quilt next to me, but Jemma’s not there.

  ‘Mummy must be downstairs. Go and ask her.’

  It’s a temporary solution, but it should buy me about five minutes extra sleep, until Jemma tells him no, we can’t get batteries at the crack of dawn and he comes charging back up to scream at me.

  I’m right, only it’s three minutes, not five.

  ‘Mummy says we might have some somewhere in the house and you’ll know where they are.’

  Unbelievable. Not only has she sent him back to me, she’s done it in a way that means I have to get out of bed and pretend to search the house for something she knows we don’t have.

  ‘We don’t have any, Alfie. Go to sleep.’

  ‘I want to play with my walkie-talkies. We could go to the shop.’

  ‘The shops are closed.’

  ‘There’s that one we go to when we have to get up to go on holiday in the middle of the night. That will be open.’

  It’s at times like this I wish Alfie wasn’t so bright and didn’t have a superhuman memory.

  ‘But I am not going to the shop in the middle of the night and you have no one to talk to on your walkie-talkie anyway.’

  It’s a bit harsh, I know. In my defence, it is five o’clock in the morning.

  ‘I don’t care. I want to get them ready.’ He’s shouting now, his fists clenched and his elbows sticking out. ‘Go and look. Mummy said we’ve got some.’

  This is one of the many reasons why Alfie and I are such a terrible match as father and son. I hate being told what to do. It’s like when Jemma tells me not to stack the cups on top of each other on the draining board because ‘the water gets stagnant inside them’ or some such rubbish. I like to think I forget not to do it, but secretly I think I might do it on purpose, as a sort of subconscious reaction to her bossing me around.

  ‘Well, tell Mummy to find them then.’

  I pull the cover over my head and he stomps back downstairs. Within seconds, the door opens. Only this time it’s Jemma.

  ‘Jake, will you just find some batteries in another one of his toys or something?’

  ‘Why can’t you do it?’

  ‘Because I’m working. I didn’t get up this early for nothing, did I? What exactly are you doing?’

  ‘It’s called sleeping, Jemma. It’s this thing that normal people who aren’t obsessed with their jobs do. You don’t understand it when he’s fixating on stuff, but you’re just as bad.’

  ‘My work is important, Jake. Batteries are not. There’s a difference.’

  ‘But they are important. They’re important to me.’

  I hadn’t heard Alfie come up and immediately feel bad that he’s overheard our conversation.

  ‘Please, Daddy,’ Alfie continues, his face full of anguish. ‘If you just find the batteries, I’ll let you sleep.’

  Somehow he manages to make it sound so reasonable and, consequently, makes me feel guilty. But I know that as soon as I’ve found the batteries, they’ll be forgotten and he’ll be on to his next obsession, his next demand. Every day is the same. His suffocating intensity starts before the sun’s even risen and lasts well beyond the time it sets. There’s no escape, and if I don’t make a stand about the little things, he’s never going to learn. It’s never going to change.

  So I turn my head away and enjoy this moment, this refuge under my quilt, before the room-shaking tantrum begins. It’ll almost certainly be the high point of my day.

  * * *

  We are already five minutes late leaving for school. I’ve now asked Alfie sixteen times to get his school uniform on. I know it’s sixteen because I’ve started keeping a tally. It’s one of the fun little things I do to keep myself from running out in the road in front of the next passing car.

  ‘If you don’t get your clothes on in the next second, I am going to take you into school in your pyjamas and you can explain to Mr Frampton why you are incapable of putting your uniform on.’

  I’m shouting from downstairs and it’s gone very quiet so I pop up to check what Alfie’s doing. When I enter his room, he’s got his pants on his head, his T-shirt on back to front and is currently tying his socks around his bedpost.

  I can’t keep the exasperation from my voice. ‘What are you doing? We are late for school. You need to get dressed.’

  I grab Alfie’s hand and he pulls it away, laughing and running off around the house.

  ‘I can’t create any more time, Alfie. We have to go. Now get dressed.’

  Alfie appears in the doorway, a slightly insane smile on his face. And then, before I can grab him, he runs away again. Sometimes he seems to find such delight in pissing me off, it just makes me more furious. We get caught in this vicious circle that I can’t see a way out of. Taking an extended breath in, I think back to one of the strategies Sam taught us at the last session. When you feel like you’re about to snap, close your eyes and think of your happy place. I stand in Alfie’s room, trying to block out the sound of him crashing around and, although I feel like an idiot, I close my eyes and try to picture the sea, the waves lapping in and out, in and out. Is this seriously supposed to help?

  I open my eyes and search all the rooms for Alfie. Finally finding him hiding underneath my bed, I pull him out, carry him into his bedroom and lay him on his bed. I straddle my legs over him so he is pinned down and begin to dress him. He hates it when I do this but it’s often the only way I can get him out of the door in anything more than his underwear.

  ‘Stop, you’re hurting me. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe.’

  I’m not hurting him. He’s fine. He just hates that I am finally the one in control.

  ‘Well, you should’ve put your clothes on when I asked you to, then.’

  I battle his clothes on, Alfie getting more and more hysterical with each item. When I’ve finished, I climb off him and he’s like a wild animal that’s just been released from its cage, his legs kicking out with all his might, but I move away just in time.

  ‘I’m going to find your book bag. I expect you downstairs in one minute with your shoes on.’

  Alfie leaps off the bed and runs towards his desk chair, picking it up and threatening to hurl it towards me.

  ‘I wouldn’t, if I were you. Now get your shoes on.’

  He clenches his teeth and utters a low, strained, almost inhuman sound, then slams the chair down on the floor. I leave him circling his room, searching for something to trash, and scour the house for the bits and bobs he needs for school, which are scattered improbably far and wide.

  With a dramatic change of mood (very typical of Alfie), he dawdles down the stairs a few minutes later.

  ‘Right, shoes on.’

  Alfie sits on the bottom step and turns his head away. ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Of course you can. You’re six. Stop being silly.’

  Alfie holds out his hands in front of him. ‘I’m not being silly. I can’t touch my shoes.’

  ‘Seriously, Alfie, I’m going to lose it in a minute. We’re late. We have to go. Now get your shoes on and get in the car.’

  ‘No.’

  It’s this blatant defiance, this total refusal to perform the simplest of requests, that riles me more than anything else. Just do what you’re told. I’m not asking you to wash the dishes or iron my shirts or climb up a sodding chimney and sweep it. I just want you to put your shoes on.

  I take his shoes off the rack and throw them towards him, and they land at his feet. ‘I’m getting in the car. Go to school in your socks, if you want. I really don’t care any more.’

  Here come the waterworks. The screaming so loud I think it pierces an eardrum. Then, as I turn towards the door, Alfie throws one of his shoes and it hits me right in the centre of my back.


  I turn around and march towards him. ‘How dare you?’ I pick him up under his armpits and carry him out to the car while he tries to kick me with his dangling legs.

  ‘I hate you, Daddy. I hate you, I hate you, I hate you. I’m never talking to you ever again.’ Then just to really hammer the point home, ‘Ever.’

  ‘Great. I can live the rest of my life in peace. Fantastic.’

  As I bundle Alfie into the car like a tent that refuses to go back into its bag once it’s been used, I notice our next-door neighbour standing on her doorstep having a cigarette, trying to pretend she’s not looking at me, and I know she thinks I’m utterly incompetent. Just like the parents who watch Alfie charge out of the car when we get to school, turning around to shout at me and then nearly bumping into a parking car. But he always stops when we get to the playground, where he stays close to my leg and shuffles inaudibly across the tarmac, as if he’s purposefully trying to convince the teachers that the only problem is my parenting or that we’re making everything up.

  When we get there, I position myself next to the small group of dads. There’re usually a few, doing the drop-off before heading to work, and we tend to congregate together, exerting our manliness with regular one-upmanship. Ted, the trendiest and best-looking dad at the school, is currently telling one of his fascinating stories about his weekend adventures. He’s some hotshot events organizer and is always getting free tickets to parties attended by the local celebrities who have second homes in the area. Ted’s a bit of a twat really, but the other dads stand and guffaw at his self-indulgent storytelling, as if some of his ‘coolness’ might rub off on them and their boring lives. I tune out and listen to the mums’ conversation beside us.

  It’s funny how the dads always talk about themselves and the mums always talk about their kids. This particular conversation is being led, as usual, by Penelope. She’s probably my age, maybe a little older, she dresses as if she’s attending Ladies’ Day at the races and her voice is both too loud and too high-pitched. Every morning, I walk past the drop-off area in the staff car park and her sodding great Land Rover is parked there, despite numerous letters home asking parents not to do that. Typical privileged upbringing – the rules clearly don’t apply to her. As usual, she’s yacking on about her ‘perfect’ daughter – the precocious Annabelle – who I often see punching her mum when she doesn’t get her snack quickly enough after school.