‘Thanks,’ I say, handing it to him.
He opens a flap on the coffee machine and turns the capsule over in his hand a few times before popping it in. There are two buttons on the top and he presses one, but nothing happens so he smacks the other one, more aggressively than the task warrants, in my opinion. A small trickle of what looks like very strong coffee comes out and half fills the cup.
He hands it to me and I wonder if I’m supposed to add milk, but I don’t want to ask so I take a sip and try to disguise the way my body baulks at the bitterness. When Jake’s finished making himself one, he swirls the contents of the cup and drinks some, his eyes narrowing like he’s just happened upon a cardamom pod in his chicken korma.
He pours his down the sink and opens the fridge – it’s one of those posh ones hidden behind a cupboard door, like a strange game of hide-and-seek – then he slams a bottle of milk and a pot of sugar down in front of me. ‘I’m not sure if you want these. It’s Jemma’s bloody machine. I’ve never used it before. I should’ve just made instant.’
‘It’s fine. I’ll just add a splash of milk, thanks. It’s nice.’
I pour in the milk and, despite wanting more, spoon in a fleck of sugar, worrying nonsensically that having lots would make me appear more common.
Jake pulls a tray of potatoes out the oven, then jumps back. ‘Shit.’
‘Are you OK?’
He flicks his hand in the air, then runs it under the tap. ‘Yeah, it’s nothing. Just the bloody oil spitting at me. Alfie’s upstairs in the bath, if you want to go and see him. He was getting a bit overexcited waiting for you and the water tends to chill him out a bit. I won’t be long.’
‘OK.’
‘Just check he’s not flooding the bathroom floor, will you?’ Suddenly, Jake seems to recognize the abruptness of his tone because he adds more softly, ‘When I checked on him a minute ago, he was getting a bit too trigger-happy with a Calpol syringe.’
When I get upstairs, I can see Alfie through the bathroom door, playing with an array of bright plastic toys. He’s jumping his Spider-Man figure over various obstacles – a boat, a tub of some sort, a swirly bath toy. He repeats it several times, in the same order, with the same phrase, ‘Spidey to the rescue. One, two, three,’ said in an Americanized voice.
‘Who’s he rescuing?’ I ask and, seeing the expression on Alfie’s face when he notices me, I instantly know why I’ve come.
‘He’s on a mission to save Superman from Doc Ock.’
‘Ah, I see.’
‘He has to do it like this.’ Alfie replays his routine and then, all of a sudden, he stops playing and drops his figure into the water. ‘I want to get out now.’
‘Oh, OK.’
‘What are you waiting for?’
‘Sorry, do you want me to go?’
‘No, you need to wash my hair, silly, then I can get out.’
‘Oh, right.’
‘You use that cup to pour the water on my head, then the shampoo is the green stuff just there.’ Alfie points to the things I need.
I pick up the cup and pour the water over his head. He splutters as it goes in his mouth.
‘Not like that,’ Alfie laughs. ‘You need to put your hand on my head like a shield.’
He shows me what to do and I try again. I massage some shampoo into his hair so gently I’m barely touching him. I’ve never washed a child’s hair before. It’s strangely terrifying.
‘That’s it, now make the shield and pour the water over my head until all the foamy stuff is out.’
I fill the cup again and pour the water over Alfie’s head, my other hand desperately trying to block any liquid reaching his face. I repeat the process several times until I’m pretty sure I’ve got all the shampoo out.
‘What’s going on?’ Jake asks, appearing at the door.
I jump. ‘Sorry, Alfie asked me to wash his hair.’
‘Alfie, you shouldn’t have asked Emily to do that. You should’ve called me to come up and do it.’
I wonder if this is really aimed at me, whether I’ve overstepped the mark.
‘I showed Emily how to do it. She only got the water in my eyes one time.’
The bathroom suddenly feels incredibly small. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’
I go into Alfie’s room and sit on his bed. The room is beautifully decorated. There are alphabet stickers around the top of his wall and ones spelling out his name by his bed. One wall is covered with a gorgeous zoo-themed mural and he has a large stylish clock with wax-crayon hands. One whole wall is shelved and, of course, all the shelves are covered with Lego models and Minifigures, lined up in neat rows. It’s the perfect kid’s bedroom, and a harsh reminder of how completely devoid of any care mine was.
It’s a four-bedroom house, which seems excessive considering they only need two, but there you are. The distribution of wealth and all that. Other than Alfie’s room, all of the decor, the furniture, the trinkets on the shelves, it’s all very elegant, very elaborate, but somehow devoid of any real personality, like it’s been plucked out of the pages of House & Garden magazine.
There’s some banging and splashing from the bathroom and then Alfie runs into his room shouting, ‘Stop, stop, it hurts.’
Jake follows Alfie in, puts the towel on his head and starts rubbing. ‘It doesn’t hurt, silly. I’m just drying your hair.’
Alfie wriggles away again. His hair is standing on end like a mad scientist’s and his face is crumpled like a discarded piece of paper. ‘It does hurt.’
‘Normally we get this about having it washed as well. You were very privileged,’ Jake says to me before turning back to Alfie. ‘Now, let’s get you some clothes. Emily does not want to see your naked bottom running around.’
As soon as Jake says this, Alfie starts dancing around, wiggling his bum at me and giggling.
‘Alfie, come on. Not with visitors.’ Jake looks like he wants to teleport into another person’s body like Sam Beckett in Quantum Leap.
‘Don’t mind me, honestly, it’s fine.’ I smile, but it doesn’t do anything to alleviate the discomfort written all over Jake’s face.
‘Come on, Alfie. Clothes. Food’s nearly ready.’
If Alfie hears his dad, he doesn’t show it; he just keeps charging around the room and stopping every few seconds to wiggle his bare bottom in my face.
‘Sorry. Look, I’ll have to take him out.’ Jake picks his son up and Alfie jerks his arms and legs like a crab being pulled out of a rock pool.
I search for anything to diffuse the tension and spot a Batman costume in the corner of the room. ‘Hey, Alfie, why don’t you put that costume on? I’d love to see it.’
Alfie looks at me and then gradually his limbs still and Jake plonks him back on the ground. He picks up the costume and starts putting it on. ‘It’s awesome, look at the muscles.’ Alfie tenses his arms like a bodybuilder and I laugh. ‘Wait until you see the mask.’
‘Can’t wait.’
‘Daddy, Daddy, where’s my mask?’
Jake looks as if Alfie’s just asked him the meaning of life. ‘I have no idea.’
‘But I need it.’ Alfie pulls at his costume and stamps one foot.
‘So find it, dude. I’m going to go and plate up.’
Alfie’s bottom lip begins to tremble and, as Jake goes off to sort the food, I suddenly feel scared to be left alone with him. It feels like I’m walking through a field of landmines, one wrong move and it’s devastation. I kneel down beside Alfie and put my arm around his shoulder.
‘How about we go on a hunt together?’
Alfie pouts and shakes his head. Where to step next?
‘OK, I’ll go on a hunt. You count and see how long it takes me. See if I can do it in ten.’
Alfie points his forefinger to the sky. ‘No, I’ve got a better idea. Let’s have a race. You search the playroom and I’ll search the lounge.’
Mission accomplished.
‘Deal. You ready?’
Alfie nods.
‘OK. Ready, set, go.’
* * *
Alfie climbs on to his chair and stares at his plate of food. ‘Yuck. I hate this. I’m not eating it.’
Jake doesn’t respond. Instead, he tucks into a roast potato, the sound of cutlery on plate echoing pointedly around the walls.
Alfie rocks on his chair so its feet repeatedly smash on the wooden floor. Then he stops, puts his feet up on the table and accidentally knocks Jake’s arm as one foot slips off, followed by the other.
‘Just sit still, will you?’ Jake moves Alfie back on to his chair and pushes it closer to the table. ‘And eat your food.’ Then, as if he remembers that I’m there, he adds, ‘Please.’
‘But we don’t have it very often. It’s strange. I can’t feed myself when it’s strange. You have to feed me.’ Alfie bangs his fork on the table.
Jake grabs Alfie’s hand to hold it still. ‘It’s a roast. You have it every week at school. You’re six. I’m not feeding you.’ He keeps his tone measured, but I can see the deep breaths he’s sucking in as he tries to stay calm.
Alfie crosses his arms and turns his head away from Jake. ‘Then I’m not eating it.’
‘I’m sorry about this,’ Jake says to me.
I hold up my hands in an attempt to dismiss his concerns.
‘I’m going to watch Peter Rabbit.’
‘No, Alfie, you need to eat your lunch.’
He starts to climb off his chair but Jake holds him back. ‘You’ll do what you’re told. Now eat it, or no snack.’ Then in a more bargaining tone, he says, ‘Remember we bought cupcakes?’
Alfie looks like he’s about to yell, but then he looks at me and reluctantly puts a carrot into his mouth. ‘Urgh.’ He spits it on to the plate, chewed-up orange goo falling out of his mouth. ‘It’s got broccoli on it.’
Like when you open a can of Coke that’s been shaken, Jake erupts, throwing his fork on to his plate, and Alfie and I both jump. ‘You do not spit your food out, Alfie. There is no broccoli on your plate. Now stop being silly and just eat it.’
‘There is, there is! It’s there, look.’ Alfie points to a fleck of broccoli the size of a grain of rice on the surface of one of his carrots.
Jake pushes his chair back, stands up and lifts Alfie out of his seat. ‘Just go. I am not having this behaviour at the table.’
Alfie looks amazed that he’s getting away with not eating his food and runs out of the dining room before Jake has a chance to change his mind, loudly banging the glass door shut as he goes.
I focus on what’s left of my plate of food, Jake’s outburst still bouncing around the room. He’s overdone the chicken and it’s quite dry, so I cover it in gravy and try not to chew too obviously.
‘I’m sorry about all that. It’s a daily occurrence, so it’s very hard not to react.’
I continue to eat my food, unsure of what to say. While I’m trying hard to avoid eye contact, I notice the Rauschenberg print on the wall behind Jake’s head. It’s one of my favourites. A beautiful mix of typography and bold splodges of paint.
‘So are you the Rauschenberg fan?’
Jake follows my gaze. ‘Oh no, that’s Jemma’s.’ Jake looks around the room. ‘In fact, pretty much all the decor is Jemma’s creation. I’d have driftwood and lighthouse pictures. I suppose I could now.’
I nod, wondering if he can hear the bitterness in his voice.
‘How come you know about Rauschenberg, anyway? I didn’t take you for a modern art connoisseur.’
‘Jake, I’m poor, not thick.’
Jake bangs his beer bottle down on the table more forcefully than I think he intended to. ‘I didn’t say you were. God, why do you always think the worst of me?’
His eyes are puffy and his frown lines are so deeply engraved they look like they’ve been drawn on with black fineliner. He looks like a tree that’s been battered by a particularly bad storm, like any minute now he might crash to the ground, so I decide to go easy on him.
‘I went to art college for a while, but working evening and weekend shifts wasn’t enough to pay the bills so I had to quit. That’s where I really got into photography.’
‘So what do you do now?’
‘Oh, I work in a café. It’s thrilling.’
‘Try being a stay-at-home dad.’ Jake smiles but I can tell he’s not joking. We’ve both finished our food so he clears the table and takes our plates to the kitchen. ‘Do you want any pudding? A glass of wine?’
As he says the word, I can almost feel the warmth of the alcohol trickling down my throat.
‘I’m full, thank you. It was lovely. And I have to drive, but thanks.’
‘Another of my delightful coffees?’ It’s only a tiny crack, but I can just make out a chink of light shining through Jake’s dejected exterior.
‘I think I’ll pass, as great as it was.’
‘Wise decision. Right, shall we go and find Alfie?’
Jake seems to gather himself for his next encounter with his son, grabs another bottle of beer out the fridge, opens it and brings it through to the lounge with him.
Alfie is sitting on the floor. He’s set up a game of Monopoly and is sharing out the money.
‘Oh no, not Monopoly,’ Jake says with mock exasperation.
Alfie giggles. ‘Yep, your favourite.’
‘OK, but I’m only playing if you play fair.’
‘I will.’ Alfie holds up a handful of playing pieces to me. ‘Who do you want to be? You can’t be the zebra.’
‘It’s a dog,’ Jake says.
‘No, it’s a zebra.’ Alfie shakes his head. ‘Silly Daddy.’
‘I’ll be the iron,’ I say.
‘That’s a shield. See.’ Alfie holds it up, wielding an imaginary sword and putting on a warrior face.
‘Oh, yes, silly me.’
Jake chooses the car and we put our pieces on the board. The game goes well to start with. Alfie’s like a property tycoon, expertly weighing up cost versus revenue when choosing which properties to buy. We circle the board several times, Alfie getting more and more agitated when he doesn’t land on his treasured dark-blue street. On our fifth time round, he’s two steps away from Park Lane and throws a three.
He quickly scoops up the dice and moves himself two spaces. ‘Yay. Finally. A two!’
Jake moves him on a space. ‘No, it was a three.’
To add insult to injury, Alfie’s ended up on Super Tax and owes one hundred pounds.
He throws the dice across the room and it hits the window. ‘It was a two.’
‘You either play fair or we stop playing. Up to you.’
Alfie crosses his arms and I retrieve the dice and have my turn. ‘Oh, great. I landed on you, Alfie. What do I owe you?’
‘Twenty-six pounds,’ he says grumpily and takes my thirty, efficiently doling out four pounds change.
Next, it’s Jake’s turn. He throws a six, counts his car round and, in a cruel twist of fate, ends up on Park Lane. ‘Buying it.’
Fair play, he’s got balls. There’s no way I’d have bought it if I’d landed on it.
‘No. The dark-blue ones are mine. It’s not fair!’ Alfie drops to the floor like he’s been shot. It would almost be comical if it wasn’t for the intensity of the torment on his face, like an athlete who’s just crashed out of the Olympics.
‘It’s only a game, Alfie. There’s no point playing if we don’t play properly. You’ve got loads of other properties.’
Alfie lets out a cry of what sounds like pain and sweeps his hand across the board, sending cards, houses, hotels and pieces flying. He picks up the board and starts repeatedly hitting Jake with it like someone’s swooped in and taken control of his body.
I look up at Jake and see any semblance of calm is gone. ‘I’m not having that. Thinking step.’
Jake picks Alfie up and carries him past me. I can hear the struggle outside the door, Jake trying to get Alfie to do his allotted time and Alfie charging up the stai
rs to escape. It feels like listening to a couple having sex, like I should be covering my ears. It’s time to leave.
I sneak into the hallway. Jake has his thighs over the top of Alfie’s legs so that he can’t move, and Alfie’s squirming and hitting him, literally unwilling to take his punishment lying down.
‘I’m going to go.’ I have to raise my voice to be heard over Alfie’s protests.
Jake’s sweating and out of breath. He doesn’t say anything, just nods. Alfie seems too lost in his rage to even notice me so I put on my boots, grab my jacket and skulk out the door.
It’s like stepping out of a sauna when you’ve stayed in there too long – when you can feel the pulse in your forehead and your vision blurs. I locate my car keys in the bottom of my bag, then hear the front door open and Jake appears with bare feet, his hair blowing into his eyes.
‘Just hold on a minute.’
I stand behind my open car door.
‘I’m sorry you had to see all that. I know it looks like I’m a terrible dad but I’m not.’
‘Seriously, Jake. You don’t need to explain anything to me.’
‘But I want to. If you lived with him every day, you’d get it. You’d understand. It’s …’ He pushes his hair off his face with both hands and shakes his head. ‘But you come over and you see these tiny snippets that make me look like a prick and then I feel even angrier that I’m made to look like that. Does that make any sense at all?’
I don’t know. I feel like I’ve run a marathon. I’m drained and unfit to think clearly about anything.
When I don’t respond, Jake continues. ‘Well, I’m sorry. And I do love Alfie, I really do.’
‘I’m sure you do. Look, thank you for the meal. It was lovely. Please say goodbye to Alfie for me.’
‘I will.’ Jake trudges back to the house and I get in my car and drive home, feeling like I’ve just been engaged in a spar and taken one too many knocks to the head. Being in Jake’s house is so intense, so stifling, I’m not sure I can go back. And yet there’s something about Alfie that draws me in. I can’t help feeling that behind the difficult behaviour, there’s a little boy crying out to be heard. And I know exactly how that feels and how desperate it makes you when no one seems to be listening.
Saturdays at Noon Page 13
