All this time, I’ve felt so judged by her, like she thinks I’m getting everything wrong, that I’m a failure as a father. It’s noticeable how much it means to me that she doesn’t.
‘So have you ever thought about finding her? Your birth mum? For closure maybe, I don’t know.’
‘Oh, we’re not estranged. She came back for me just before I turned nine. Apparently she’d stopped the drinking and the drugs and was ready to be a mum again.’
‘I’m guessing that wasn’t the case?’
Emily turns on to her side and I copy her so that our faces are close enough for me to feel the warmth of her breath on my skin, but then she rolls away and stares at the ceiling. ‘She was better for a while. Being a mum didn’t exactly come naturally to her but she tried, I guess. But then she met Shane.’ She shakes her head. ‘I moved out as soon as I could.’
‘And your dad? Do you ever see him?’
‘He died. Overdose.’
‘I’m so sorry, Em.’
She shrugs. ‘It’s fine. I didn’t know him.’
I prop my head up so I can look into her eyes. ‘You don’t always have to be so strong, you know?’
Emily looks away. ‘I know.’
‘So why did you lie to me about your family?’
‘I get bored of talking about it. Everyone’s always fascinated when they find out, like I’m a walking episode of Jeremy Kyle or something. But when you live it, it’s just dull.’
I wish she felt she could be more honest with me. I want to hold her, to comfort her, but I know that the moment to get close to her has passed and her barbed-wire fence is firmly reinstalled.
As predicted, within about five minutes she’s making her excuses and I get up to see her out. As she opens the front door, there’s a moment when she hesitates and I wonder if she might change her mind and stay, if maybe she is feeling what I’m feeling, but then she leaves and I question whether it was all in my head.
* * *
The next morning, I’m woken by a text from Jemma.
Available to Skype?
I look at my watch, disorientated, and force my eyes to focus so I can read the time. It’s nine o’clock. Alfie hasn’t slept in beyond seven in his entire life and he’s usually hassling me well before six. I panic and run into his room naked. He’s sitting at his little table, bits of paper scattered around him, busy drawing.
‘You OK, Alfie?’
Alfie looks around. ‘Yeah, I’ve got this amazing idea, Daddy. We could make a Christmas Lego superhero film. Look, I’ve drawn the story.’
Alfie says all this without taking a breath. He holds up several pieces of paper. There’s no way I can tell what’s supposed to be happening. Drawing isn’t exactly Alfie’s strong point, but I feel a rush of happiness to see him so engaged and not needing my constant guidance.
‘Looks amazing. But it’s still quite a while until Christmas, little man. Perhaps you and Emily could work on it a bit closer to the time?’
‘No, Daddy, please will you do it with me? I want to do it today.’
‘Well, I’m not sure I’ve really got the skills.’
Or the patience …
‘Please, Daddy.’
‘OK, I’ll give it a go. First, your mum wants to Skype you. Let’s change you out of those pyjamas or she’ll think I don’t look after you properly.’
Alfie stares at my nether regions. ‘Daddy, why is your willy like a mushroom?’
I suddenly feel very self-conscious and grab a pillow to cover my private area. ‘We’ll talk about that when you’re a bit bigger. Let me just get some clothes on, then I’ll get you dressed.’
Jemma doesn’t speak to Alfie for long. I stay in his room, out of view of the iPad, and listen to their conversation. Alfie’s telling her all about his new Christmas Lego film, his arms gesticulating wildly as he explains the story in detail.
‘Oh, and we went to Legoland, Mummy. It was awesome.’
I know this isn’t going to go down well.
‘So Daddy took you to Legoland, did he? Wow, that was pretty special. Daddy always said he didn’t want to go there when I suggested it.’
I hate it when she does this. Subtly throws in a dig at me when talking to Alfie in the hope he might pass it on. I’m so tempted to bite, but I don’t want her to know I’m in the room.
‘Yeah, with Emily. It was so much fun, Mummy. Do you want to go when you get home?’
‘Emily went too?’
‘Yeah, Emily is my nanny. Remember, I told you a million times, Mummy.’
‘I know, Alfie. I just wonder why you need a nanny at Legoland when Daddy is with you?’
She must know I’m in the room.
‘It was Emily’s idea to go.’
‘Oh, right. I see.’
The poorly disguised fury in her voice makes me want to scream at her. How dare she play the victim in all this?
‘I want to speak to Daddy now, darling. I miss you so much. I really hope to come and see you soon, OK?’
‘OK, Mummy. Can we go to Legoland when you get back?’
‘Of course. Pass me to Daddy now. Love you.’
Alfie passes the iPad to me and returns to his sketches.
‘Can we do this now, Daddy?’
‘In a minute, little man. Let me just speak to Mummy. I won’t be long. You get all the characters off the shelf and everything ready, OK?’
‘OK,’ he says, drawing out the ‘ay’ sound.
I take the iPad into my bedroom and close the door so that Alfie can’t hear us. Jemma’s hair is scraped back in a ponytail and her skin looks blotchy.
‘What’s up?’ I don’t bother trying to hide how pissed off I am.
‘I just want to talk to you.’
‘Go ahead.’
‘Why is this Emily going to Legoland with you anyway?’
‘If you’re looking for a fight, I’m not interested.’
‘I’m just asking you a question. You don’t have to bite my head off, Jake.’
I take a deep breath. ‘Let’s not play games. I’ve got stuff to do with Alfie. Is there anything else?’
‘I’m sorry. I’m just jealous of this woman spending her time with my two boys.’
I sigh. ‘She’s just his nanny. Anyway, I didn’t think I was your boy any more.’
I feel immediately guilty for dismissing Emily like this. Because she’s so much more than his nanny. She’s a part of our life now. And unlike Jemma, she’s here, putting in the time.
‘I know I’m being unfair, Jake. I’m sorry. It’s just I …’
‘You what, Jemma? You’re coming home? You want to be a part of our family again?’ I pause to allow her to answer but she doesn’t. ‘No, I didn’t think so. So you need to let me do this as I see fit. I’m the one dealing with Alfie. I’m the one trying to survive this.’
‘I know, I know. I just miss you, OK? I know what I said a few weeks ago, but as time goes on, it’s getting harder to be away from you and I’m starting to think that it wasn’t us that was the problem.’
I tap the back of my head against the wall. If she’d said this a month ago, I would’ve been elated. I would’ve begged her to come home and end this silly mess. But now? Well, now, when she says it, all I can think about are Emily’s big blue eyes.
‘You don’t miss me, do you?’ Jemma has tears in her eyes now and one escapes and trickles down the side of her cheek.
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘You didn’t have to. We’re on Skype, remember? I can see it written all over your face.’
‘Daddy, come on. You said you’d be super-quick,’ Alfie shouts from the other side of the door.
For once, it’s a relief to have him hassling me.
‘I’ve got to go, Jem. We’ll speak soon, OK?’
Jemma nods and then turns off her Skype. I watch as her face disappears and the screen goes blank.
* * *
I now see why Alfie loves making stop-motion films so muc
h. He’s learnt to use the camera and sits behind it on his bed, giving me precise orders about what changes to make to the figures. I’m basically his slave. It’s perfect for him. I try my best to deep-breathe away my irritation, and sit and make minute adjustments to bits of plastic while he barks at me for not getting it exactly right.
‘Now put Santa’s hat on Spider-Man, Daddy, and hang him on to that bit on the Batcave.’
I start to attach Spider-Santa to the Batcave. It’s all wrong, this mixture of Marvel and DC, but Alfie doesn’t seem to get it when I say Batman and Spider-Man would never work together because they are from different worlds.
‘Not that bit, Daddy. The bit with the computer.’
I smile, in the way a politician might when his rival is named the winner of the election. ‘Well, you didn’t say that, did you? You need to make your instructions clear if you want to be a director.’
I hear the passive aggressiveness in my tone and vow to try harder.
‘Right, move out the way. Your hand is in the picture.’
‘Sorry, boss.’
‘I’m not called Boss, I’m called Alfie.’
‘But you’re my boss. You like bossing me around, don’t you? Does it make you feel better, safer, to be in charge, do you think?’
I feel like I should have a clipboard in front of me and be making notes.
Alfie shrugs. ‘I just like it when people do things right.’
‘You mean when people do things how you want them to? Other people might want to do things a different way. It doesn’t mean they’re not right.’
Alfie screws up his face. Does not compute.
I continue with my feeble attempt at psychoanalysis. ‘It’s OK if people sometimes want to do things in different ways or want to do things that you don’t want to.’
‘But if you put the figures in the wrong place, then the story won’t be right. It’s my story, so I know where they go.’
‘Yeah, with your film you do need to be in charge. You’re right. But, sometimes, if Daddy wants to go somewhere you don’t want to, that’s OK too. And if someone at school doesn’t want to play the game you choose – sometimes you can try playing their game.’
Alfie looks down and appears to be staring at something on his quilt intently. Then after a while, he starts to speak. ‘But I don’t like it if I don’t choose.’ His voice wavers. ‘Because they don’t explain the rules and then they say I’m playing it wrong, but I’m not because they didn’t say not to do that and I don’t like it. I just want to play my game.’
I move on to the bed beside Alfie and wrap my arms around him. For a second, I can see the world just as it must appear to him, this huge terrifying place full of rules you don’t understand and people who don’t do what you expect them to.
‘I’m sorry I’ve not tried very hard to understand, Alfie. I promise I’m going to try harder.’
I know Alfie’s not listening, he’s busy looking at the photos he’s taken on the back of the camera, but really I’m saying it to myself, like a mantra, in the hope if I say it often enough, I’ll be able to do it.
Emily
I’ve never really liked Christmas before. Mariah Carey and Noddy Holder on repeat. When I lived with Mum, it was just an excuse for her and Shane to get drunk. Then either they’d get all mushy with each other and overly physical, which made me want to regurgitate my turkey dinner, or they’d get lairy and start smashing plates like they were at a Greek wedding.
Since moving out, I’ve spent Christmas morning on my own in the flat with a Baileys for breakfast and The Snowman on the television. Occasionally, I get a mini pre-decorated tree from the garden centre, one you just have to plug in and the lights flash. But most years I don’t bother. It always looks a little sad with the single present from Alice underneath it. Mum usually sends me a card containing a voucher for a shop I never go into. And since meeting Nan, I’ve spent the afternoon with her. I cook her Christmas dinner and we sit watching crappy Christmas TV while eating it. She always buys me a gift box of lavender toiletries, some socks and a box of chocolates. The same every year, as if she’s forgotten over the twelve months that that’s what she bought me the year before. I love Nan to bits and it’s better than spending all day on my own, but it’s not exactly the most exciting day on the calendar.
But this year, as the over-long build-up to the big day begins, it’s like suddenly I appreciate how pretty the lights making the trees sparkle down the Promenade are. I’m sure I must’ve noticed them before but I never realized how beautiful the town looked at this time of year. Maybe it’s the Alfie effect. The way he oohs and aahs at all the little Christmas details and displays. Or maybe I’ve joined the sappy brigade now I have people to share it with.
We arrive at the garden centre (it’s December the first so, according to Alfie, the tree must go up) and Alfie circles the various specimens, surveying each one to make sure he gets the biggest and the thickest. We have to go round four times before he chooses one, and even then he’s having doubts.
‘Are you sure this is the biggest one?’
‘I reckon so,’ Jake says.
‘But does that mean you’re sure or that you think it is but you don’t know?’
‘I’m sure, Alfie.’
‘Can we decorate it when we get home?’
‘Yes, I told you that earlier.’ I can see Jake’s patience dwindling with each new query. Since his big admission at anger management, Jake has been amazing with Alfie. He never talks about PDA, but I can tell he’s looked up the strategies. He’s trying so hard to allow Alfie to control the stuff that doesn’t really matter, to recognize his need for certainty, his inability to wait, but I can see it still gets his back up.
‘You promise the second we get in the door you will go into the loft and get the decorations down?’
‘Well, I might just get myself a drink and take my shoes off …’
Alfie’s face crumples. ‘You promised you’d get them straight away.’
‘Look, Alfie,’ I say, putting my hand on his shoulder, ‘I’ll make the drinks and Daddy can get the decorations, OK?’
Perhaps a little selfishly, I don’t want an Alfie tantrum to ruin this moment. It’s my first time choosing a real Christmas tree. My first Christmas where I feel like I’m part of something.
Alfie contemplates my offer and then nods in agreement.
Jake leans his head towards me and his nose brushes my cheek. ‘Thank you.’
I’m not really sure what’s going on with Jake and me but these moments of physical contact seem to be increasing. And, sometimes, I catch his eyes lingering on me when he doesn’t realize I’ve noticed. I don’t know what it all means, but unlike everything else in my life, I’m trying not to overanalyse it too much. Because if I do, I’ll probably end up picking at it so much that I pull the stitches out and it falls apart, and I don’t want to do that with this. Because, in the simplest terms, when I’m with Jake and Alfie, I feel happy. And I’ve not felt that in a very long time.
‘Come on then, Alfie. Let’s go and buy this tree,’ Jake says, struggling to pick it up.
‘Shall we just check the others again so we’re sure it’s the biggest?’
I run my hand through Alfie’s hair. ‘It’s definitely the biggest, buddy. Come on, the sooner we buy it, the sooner we can get home and decorate it. And I’ll let you in on a secret: I brought mince pies with me.’
Alfie beams.
‘Well, you can’t do decorating without mince pies, can you?’
Jake goes to pay, and Alfie and I walk to the car, hand in hand. When I look back, Jake is following us hidden behind the ridiculously large Christmas tree, so that it looks as if it’s walking on its own.
* * *
When I finally get back to my flat, after an evening of tinsel, baubles and Christmas lights, I walk through the door and remove the range of winter accessories adorning my body.
From the bedroom, I hear the sound of my phone buzzin
g against the surface of the bedside table where I’ve left it on charge. I run into my room and answer it.
‘Hello, is this Miss Davies?’
‘Yeah, who’s this?’
‘Oh, hello, Miss Davies. I’m calling from Broadlands Assisted Living Centre. It’s about your grandmother.’
I worry she’s had another fall. ‘Is she OK?’
The man on the other end of the phone clears his throat. ‘Well, no, I’m really sorry to have to tell you, but your grandmother died last night. We found her this afternoon when we did our daily rounds. She must have passed away in her sleep. I’m really very sorry.’
I don’t speak. I can’t. I want to be sick.
‘Miss Davies? Are you OK? Shall I call back with all the technical stuff? I’ll give you some time to process the news.’
I put the phone down and lie on my bed. I get up again and begin pacing the room. I don’t know what to do with my limbs. I feel like I should call someone but I don’t know who to call. I feel like I should be crying but no tears come. My chest feels so tight that I’m struggling to breathe. I go through to the kitchen and open the fridge. There’s nothing. My stupid fucking no-alcohol pledge. I grab a hoody and head to the Tesco Metro on the corner. I buy three bottles of wine and hurry home.
As soon as I get through the door, I unscrew the top of the wine and drink it straight from the bottle. It’s bitter and makes me shudder, but soon the desired dampening effect kicks in so I keep drinking until the bottle’s gone and then move straight on to the next one.
I take it into the shower with me. Crouching down on the shower floor, I pour the wine down my throat and let the water wash over me, drowning the noise in my skull. I pick up the razor in the corner and start stroking it over my head, rhythmically, watching the clumps of white hair swirling around in the water by my feet. I finish the wine and stand up, smacking my head on the shower knobs, but I don’t feel it.
Wrapping a towel around me, I stagger on to the sofa and allow my eyes to close.
* * *
The sound of a fist banging on my front door startles me into a semi-conscious state. I’m naked apart from a towel strewn over my legs so I stumble into my room, grab my underwear, some joggers and a T-shirt and struggle to the door. My head feels like someone’s whacked me with a large heavy object.
Saturdays at Noon Page 25
