A Different Kind of Happy

by Rachaele Hambleton

  And she’d spend the day agreeing, smiling away about what a great chap her husband was, and I’d smile on while she’d answer, happy at how good they had it together. Only now it was different, and as he stood in front of me, ruffling my son’s hair and discussing the tide times with my husband, I watched his wife slyly watching him, and I wondered what scars and fresh injuries were hidden under her sleeves.

  As Jamie stood up to leave, David told me I could finish for the day. I saw Lou shoot me a look – although I couldn’t work out what it was for. Did she want me to stay on and protect her or was she encouraging me to go, telling me she would be fine. I said I was fine to stay on, but David insisted, saying he and Lou would manage fine. I felt a dagger of panic and wondered if he somehow knew that I knew. I worried that he had seen a look between us, if I had been too obvious with my hatred for him. I saw him turn to Lou, but he had his back to me, and I couldn’t see his face. She immediately started assuring me I was fine to leave and I knew. I knew at that point things weren’t OK. He didn’t want his wife out of his sight for a single fucking second. I told Lou I would see her tomorrow and, as we were going, Jamie decided to invite them over for dinner this weekend. A BBQ if the weather was nice; if not he would cook steak indoors. Brilliant.

  Lou was immediately hesitant – saying she wasn’t sure of their plans. David spoke over her, said that would be lovely and he would text Jamie once he had checked his diary. I hoped he was also stalling and he was also going to confirm they were busy and had plans they were unable to change. That he had no intention of playing happy families either in my back garden or round my dining table and it was another one of his games to mess with his wife’s head. The thought of having to spend the evening watching that fucker play the perfect dad and husband while chowing down on a sirloin steak and sipping cold beer like he had no cares in the world made me want to eat my own fist.

  Tuesday

  As I got ready for work this morning, Art appeared beside me. He perched on the edge of my bed as I pulled on my leggings and flicked the GHDs through my hair in an attempt to make it look like I’d made some kind of effort.

  ‘Will we ever see Dad again?’ he asked.

  Jesus. First Ruby, now him …

  I cope far better when the kids are silent about their missing parents. If anything, when they don’t say stuff, I can almost pretend we’re OK. That we’re normal and happy and the kids are fine and coping with life as it is. I can almost pretend that my kids’ dad and Jamie’s kids’ mum don’t exist – even though I think about them several times throughout every day. I think the same things, over and over. I question how they can live without seeing or speaking to them every day. How they cope without knowing they’re OK, what they are doing or what they’ve been up to. I wonder what they’d think now if they did see them. They change almost weekly with how much they grow; their personalities are different to the last time they saw them, and I have no understanding of how they live without them. Not having my children with me would be like cutting off my oxygen supply … then I spend the rest of my time reminding myself they’re ‘not like me’. They must be unwell, Mark must have something wrong with his emotions to be able to shut off, and I make a promise I won’t keep to stop overthinking it all constantly.

  I sat beside Art and kissed the top of his head. Part of me wanted to lie to him, tell him that he would be seeing his dad soon and he had just been busy at work … but the reality is that we’ve been on this merry-go-round for five years now and I feel the more I continue to protect him with lies, the more I’m fucking up my son …

  ‘I don’t know,’ is how I answered. I then went on to explain that, since we’ve moved to Cornwall, I’ve stopped contacting his dad, because I’ve realised since seeing how Jamie is with his kids that it’s not normal that I have to beg and plead for Mark to spend time with his children. I try to explain that I don’t understand why he doesn’t contact them. As I’m doing so, I see Art ripping apart a piece of tissue in his sweaty palm where he’s trying to stop himself from crying. I tell him it’s OK to cry – and he does. He doesn’t want to, but he can’t stop. It’s a frustrated, hurt cry. One where he sheds tears because he cannot fathom out why he isn’t enough for his dad. It’s the same cry he did the last time he saw Mark. He doesn’t understand why his own dad has chosen to reject and abandon him, and for the first time in half a decade I’ve admitted that I don’t either.

  I told him how much I love him, how I would die and kill for him without question and how my heart is so full every time I lay eyes on him. I tell him how much Jamie loves him, no differently to how he loves Will. That all we see is that the five of them now are ‘ours’ and we try our hardest to make this situation as normal as possible for them. And then I tell him I’m sorry. I’m sorry I picked such a shitty dad for him, I’m sorry I didn’t know what I was doing when I did it and that I feel responsible because of how much he has been let down and hurt, but I tell him I am also so glad I did because him, Rex and Belle are the best achievements in my life and I wouldn’t change that for the world. He repeatedly mutters, ‘I know, Mum,’ but the tears have turned into choked sobs and the tissue is now in a thousand tiny damp pieces scattered all over my bedroom floor.

  I want to send a text to Mark more than anything, telling him what a shithead he is. I wish I had a way for him to see the damage he’s caused his son. I want to call him and lose my mind or get in the car and drive to his house. I want to scream and shout and ask him why. Why is he such an appalling father? My heart is beating through my chest and I feel sick with anger watching my baby so utterly devastated, but the reality is that it’s pointless. Me doing any of that is totally pointless. You cannot force, bribe or threaten someone to love their own child. It’s either there or it’s not, and for him, it’s not. And on reflection I don’t think it ever has been, not really. It’s just another harsh reminder that Jamie and I need to prioritise these five kids above and over anything and everyone.

  The chat came to an abrupt end when Rex appeared at the bedroom door holding a used tampon applicator. ‘What is this?’ he asked – and, as he did, Belle arrived behind him and lost the plot, screaming that he’s gross.

  I reminded her it would be best to pop these things in the bin and she started screaming that she had put it in the bathroom bin and that Rex is a weirdo to have found it. Will and Art then asked what it was and I found myself stood in the hallway attempting to explain to three young boys and a golden Labrador how it’s perfectly normal and healthy for girls to bleed from their minis once a month and this is what they use to absorb the blood. I also pointed out it can make them slightly moody – perfectly timed as Belle was in her room screaming, ‘JESUS ACTUAL CHRIST!’, in sheer embarrassment.

  Art and Rex both made grossed-out faces and giggled and said yuck loads. Will was really grown up and said, ‘Alisha in my class started her periods already. She told us all they’re really heavy.’ I then had to explain what ‘heavy’ meant – cue more screaming from Belle and me beginning to panic-sweat a little. I rushed downstairs to escape this conversation and when Ruby looked up from her iPad and asked the question, ‘When will I start bleeding out of my mini?’, I wondered what my life had come to …

  I arrived at work slightly late and explained to Lou I’d had a bad morning with Art. Her eldest son Harry was sat at the table and I said hello to him and asked if he had come to work, Lou replied he had come in to help and he looked up from his iPhone and snapped, ‘No. Dad made me come.’ Lou scuttled back into the kitchen and I knew that this was his way of control, spying on her through their fourteen-year-old son.

  I followed her into the kitchen and saw that she was a nervous wreck, scurrying around doing stuff that didn’t need doing.

  ‘Lou. Are you OK?’ I asked. She kept saying she was while continuing to hurl herself all over the place doing pointless jobs at the speed of light. I walked behind her and as I put my hands on either side of her arms to get her to stop, she jump
ed out of her skin. She then began profusely apologising.

  ‘Calm down,’ I kept saying in a hushed tone, but then the tears came. I tried asking her if she wanted to leave David and come and stay with me, if he had hurt her again, but she was just shaking her head and repeating the sentences ‘I’m fine’ and ‘I’m so sorry’ in a whispered tone. Heartbreaking.

  I told her this wasn’t OK. That she and her sons were in danger and that David was extremely warped and dangerous.

  She took some deep breaths while looking up to the ceiling and fanning her face with her hand and told me he had now agreed to get help for his anger and that he had changed. I struggled to see how a man in his position had suddenly willingly agreed to get help, but at least he was trying. Lou told me that there hadn’t been any further incidents since I’d been at the house, which I was at least thankful for. If she was telling the truth.

  After ten minutes of me begging and pleading, informing her about all the research I’ve done and the stats on domestic abuse, she was still not having it. Her marriage, she told me, would work. Her husband, she told me, is a good man. Her children, she told me, are fine. Part of me felt really angry towards her, that she wasn’t protecting her children, that she was staying with a man who caused them and her such damage, but one thing I’ve now learned is that supporting a person who is being subjected to domestic abuse is one of the hardest, most frustrating things you can ever do, but I know I needed to do it. She had no one else to turn to; he had isolated her from every other person in life, so for now I would keep supporting, and listening, and just being there – however infuriating that may be at times.

  As I was clearing tables out the front, Jen appeared. She ordered a coffee and asked where Lou was as she hadn’t seen her for so long. I said she was busy baking but would be out soon. I said it loud enough for Lou to hopefully hear and after five minutes she appeared as fresh-faced as was possible. Jen still spotted her tear-stained face and asked what was wrong. Lou brushed off Jen’s worries and started complaining about hay fever and the pollen count.

  I stood and watched her lie and lie to one of her best friends, who was, by now, totally convinced by her, and was sharing stories of her friend’s daughter who’s also currently struggling with hay fever. Jen went onto enquire how her migraines were, about which Lou then gave a whole new account – she was waiting for test results but the hospital hadn’t been that great, etc., etc.

  It became so clear watching Lou turn into an Oscar-winning actress that the websites I’d trawled were correct. If I hadn’t walked up her drive that day and seen those injuries for myself, I’d be stood here now, alongside her and Jen sharing stories about migraines and headaches and hay fever, while still thinking Lou had one of the most supportive husbands and strongest marriages I’ve ever come across. The victim of a domestic abusive relationship really does learn how to lie and cover for their perpetrator – and the fact she can now do it so well and she’s so convincing tells me she knows, more than I do, that her situation is very much a matter of life and death. I need to turn my research more to what I can actually do to help. It’s all well and good me learning the stats but we need this to stop. There must be advice out there and I’m sure that being outside of it, I’ll be able to see a way to break the cycle more clearly than Lou will.

  Wednesday

  Jamie went into work today for a meeting even though he had planned to be at home, so Belle and Molly looked after the kids while I was at the café. We all had breakfast together before I left for work and I thought it would be nice to have some quality family bonding time, so I decided to cook pancakes. But they were like rubber – too thick so still raw after cooking or too thin and I had to scrape them off the pan as black as coal into the bin. The kids were in hysterics watching me attempt to cook them. In the end I was late for work, the kitchen was a haze of black smoke so I chucked three boxes of cereal and milk on the table, thanked Belle for clearing up the mess – in case she wasn’t planning to – and ran out of the door.

  Jaclyn called this morning to say she is finishing early tonight so wondered if it would be OK for Belle to stay over and she would take them out for dinner. It was really nice, from what Molly said to Belle her mum had never done anything like this with her and it seems like she was really enjoying it. Belle liked Jaclyn too, she said she was posh, but a ‘nice posh’ – whatever that meant! I wonder about Molly’s dad; she’s never mentioned him since the day I asked, and Jaclyn never has. I think about if she does actually know who he is and if not does she not want to track him down? Maybe it wouldn’t be a bad thing. I don’t know.

  I called Belle to check in on home and she said Jacob was on his way over and they were going to take the little ones down to the park before Jaclyn collected her and Molly, then she would be staying at hers for the night.

  It seems so weird now that she has a boyfriend – well, not a boyfriend because God forbid we call him that – but I often find myself thinking back to the days when we snuggled up on the sofa with our cups of tea when she toddled about, and I never envisaged this. You never look ‘that far’ into the future. One day you’re arguing with your baby, who is adamant they’ve put their wellies on the right feet even though they’re on the wrong ones. Your heart melts when you hear them counting to ten and throwing in random numbers or when they try to sing the rainbow song and add in some weird colours for extra effect, and you think – this is it. You don’t see life past this, past them needing you and you needing them to need you. Then one day it just becomes so clear that the reality is you only have them as ‘yours’ for such a short time.

  Our job, as parents, is to raise them so they can go out into the world and cope without us – and when that happens it’s really daunting because no one ever prepares you for this part. When you’re carrying your baby inside you all you are told is how to cope with the pain of breastfeeding, how to get through the sleepless nights and when to wean your baby. No one ever really gets to the teenage years let alone the time after that when they go to uni or leave home, and the closer I’m edging to that the more I’m realising that perhaps this is the hardest part of motherhood, and actually having a baby that needs you constantly and is with you twenty-four hours a day is the easy part …

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  The Shit Hits the Fan

  Thursday

  I’ve felt sick with nerves all day long and my tummy is in knots constantly. David popped into the café this morning – clearly just to ‘check’ on Lou. He’s bought himself a brand-new convertible Mercedes, bright red, ‘just for the summer months’, he told a customer at the counter, who was admiring it out of the window. As soon as I saw it, he reminded me of Mark. The knob. Who would spend that amount of money on a car for a couple of months? And what middle-aged father rocks around in a bright-red two-seater soft top?

  It’s funny, but now ‘I know’ what he is, and what the situation is, it’s so easy to actually see this purchase for what it is – power and control. As he was leaving shortly after, he said, ‘See you Saturday, Jo.’ When I asked him what was happening on Saturday, David reminded me of Jamie’s offer for dinner and that they would definitely be able to make it. I exchanged glances with Lou and she looked as shocked as me.

  What. The. Fuck.

  I laughed (out loud) and went totally over the top with excitement in case he had picked up on either of our ‘What the fuck’ faces. I started getting a notepad out of my pinny to make a list of what they wanted to eat and drink like I was hosting a grand celebration. I caught Lou’s eye again and her shocked face was worsening at my now weird over-the-top behaviour. I could feel the adrenaline pumping round my body, my face was flustered, and I felt so angry at Jamie for dishing out this invite that I wanted to cry with anger and frustration.

  David said Lou would let us know what they liked, he was as cool as a cucumber – he said he had to leave for an urgent meeting. He gave Lou a goodbye kiss on the forehead, one that if I had seen ‘before’ I�
��d have thought was cute – but this time I noticed the grip on her chin and a little head movement from her where he held her just that bit too tight to ensure ‘she knew’.

  As he drove off in his twat-mobile, I passed her an ice pack from the freezer for the now-visible pinch marks on her face and told her it would help with the bruising. As the tears pricked her eyes and she walked back into the safety of the kitchen, I heard her mutter the words ‘I fucking hate him’, and I felt a little burst of hope that maybe, just maybe, she was getting stronger.

  Friday

  After we put the kids to bed last night, I asked Jamie why he had asked David and Lou to dinner without speaking to me first and he looked genuinely confused. He reminded me I had constantly tried to plan something with David and Lou for ‘months’ and all I had done is moan that it was weird that they never wanted to meet up and had a go at him that I’m the only one that ever invites them and he makes no effort. He thought I’d be pleased that he had finally managed to pin them down.

  I quickly realised he was of course right to be totally confused that I was pissed off, but I was crippled with nerves about having to spend that amount of time in David’s company. It made my tummy do flips and I felt physically sick at the thought of having him in our home. I apologised to Jamie and made the excuse I was hormonal, to which he giggled and planted his usual kiss on my forehead followed by an eye roll.

  I called Pat and cried. I missed her so much when I heard her voice.

  She asked me to speak to Jamie and to let her know when we wanted her to come back. She had got her house valued and it was already on the market. She had definitely come to the conclusion that her home in Canterbury was no longer home and she wanted to be nearer to us.