by K. L. Slater
‘His mum repeatedly left home when he was a kid and it’s left him not trusting women,’ is how she flippantly explains his refusal to get married and have children of their own.
But I know it bothers her. She dashes around doing stuff for other people and sometimes I think things like suitability of material just doesn’t occur to her when she spends time with her nephews. She just wants them to enjoy their time there. It won’t do any harm to make her aware of a few guidelines I’d like observing when the boys visit her house. Not so easy to find a way to say it without offending her.
When George dropped me home on Tuesday evening, we agreed to meet up again on Saturday. But when this child-free option becomes available, although I know he’s working until 8 p.m. all week, I decide to be bold and text him to ask if he’d like to come over to my house for supper after work on Friday.
His reply pings back within minutes.
Best offer I’ve had all day!
My plans for a simple supper seem to take on military levels of planning of their own accord. I scour online recipe websites, leaf through cookbooks I haven’t touched for years and finally, in desperation, even think about buying in something posh and ready-made from the small Waitrose in town.
George is bound to have sophisticated tastes. His housekeeper is probably a very skilled cook and this is my chance to impress him.
Eventually I calm myself down and plump for something upmarket but simple: a whole Camembert baked with sprigs of rosemary and thyme and served with slices of crusty bread and a side salad. It’s home-made vanilla cheesecake for pudding, a favourite of the boys that I haven’t made since last year. Voilà!
* * *
‘This is so good.’ George closes his eyes and, I can’t help but notice, speaks with his mouth full. I tell the boys off for doing the same thing, but tonight, I don’t care. I have melted cheese, chilled white wine and a gorgeous man. Nothing else matters.
‘Glad you like it,’ I say laconically, sipping my wine and thinking how much blood, sweat and tears went into just choosing which dish to serve him.
‘Oh yes, I could definitely get used to this.’ He winks at me, sending a little shiver of goose bumps down my back, as if he’s actually traced my spine with his fingertips.
‘It’s not always this easy to get time off being a mum.’ I grin. ‘I’ve just been lucky that my in-laws have offered me lots of help this week.’
George nods and breaks off another piece of bread before dunking it into the cheese. ‘What are they like, your in-laws?’
I hesitate, wondering how much to tell him. I don’t want to get into the whole ‘Joel and his betrayal’ thing. My instinct is to keep it brief and polite, but George and I are getting to know each other. And you can really only do that if you take a risk and open up a little.
‘They’ve been fantastic to me and the boys since Joel died. I don’t know what I’d have done without them,’ I say honestly.
George looks at me, his eyes twinkling. ‘Do I sense a “but” coming?’
‘Not really.’ I trace the rim of my glass with a fingertip. ‘But…’
‘Ha! I knew it was there somewhere.’
I laugh. ‘OK, you got me. They’ve been amazing, but now I’m ready for a bit more space, and it’s starting to feel awkward. Hiding us, I mean.’
‘They’ll take it badly?’
‘Not necessarily. Steph, that’s Joel’s sister, and his mum, Brenda… Well, they’ve always made it clear that it’s too early for me to start rebuilding my life. In terms of dating again, I mean.’
‘That sounds entirely unreasonable to me and a bit controlling, if I’m honest. It’s been four years now, after all.’
‘Hmm. They do like things to be on their own terms,’ I sigh. ‘They’re so used to being involved in every area of my life, I think they’ll be floored when I tell them I’ve met someone special.’
I think about the time they had to take over custody of my sons because I was a complete dysfunctional wreck and I feel a shaming heat rush up to my face.
George picks up his wine and leans back in his chair, watching me.
‘Brenda and Leonard adore Kane and Harrison; they spend a lot of time with them. As Joel’s family, I think they might feel a bit strange when they know there’s another man in the boys’ lives, that’s all.’
How did I end up saying all this personal stuff? I’ve got ahead of myself, it’s too much for our very new relationship.
‘I mean… I’m not saying you’re in their lives yet. That’s ridiculous, it’s far too soon! I just meant…’
George reaches for my hand, envelops it in his own.
‘I know exactly what you mean, Darcy,’ he says softly. ‘You should start to take control of your own life again ready for when you do tell them about us. Their primary concern is bound to be the effect our relationship has on their grandsons. But hey’ – he squeezes my hand again – ‘don’t look so worried. They’re all just going to have to suck it up, right?’
‘Right.’ I laugh, but my heart is heavy when I think about what their reaction might be.
Then the full of the implication of his words dawns on me. He fully expects our relationship to get serious.
And probably quite soon.
Eighteen
1995
If he thought his ordeal was behind him when he came back to school three weeks later, he soon realised he was sadly mistaken.
After his ‘fall’, which is how both his father and the school referred to it now, he’d told the janitor who found him at the bottom of the bell tower that he had lost his balance and although the man had looked sceptical, the school seemed happy to accept his explanation without further questions.
‘Could I go to a local school now?’ He’d asked his father. ‘There are people from the village and I’d be closer to home and—’
‘Impossible.’ His father had blustered. ‘I work away too much and there’s nobody here to look after you.’
‘I’m thirteen.’ He protested. ‘I don’t need looking after.’
‘Not up for negotiation. It’s inconveniencing me enough you’re back now.’
It took some time before his injuries had healed to the extent he could return to St Mark’s. After breaking his right leg and fracturing his left arm, he was still on crutches.
His father sent his luggage to school separately at the weekend and he got the six o’clock train back down on the Monday morning, preferring to do that as opposed to arriving the night before to get ‘re-accustomed’, as his father had suggested.
There were still four months to go until the end of the academic year so he was sent back to the same class as before the accident, Form 3A.
On that first morning back and after registering at the school office, he hobbled into the classroom and felt cheered that the first person he saw was Kelvin. Even better, there was a spare seat next to where Kelvin now sat.
As he made his way across the classroom, the hum of conversation dropped and all eyes focused on him. When he was a few steps away, Kelvin picked his bag up from under the desk and placed it on the vacant chair next to him.
At that moment Mr Sherwin came into the class and instructed a boy at the front to vacate his seat.
‘Now you don’t so he didn’t have as far to limp,’ the teacher said in a jolly manner.
At break time, he made sure he stuck close to Kelvin when the class emptied. He moved much slower because of his leg and tapped Kelvin on the shoulder.
‘What do you want?’ Kelvin snapped when he turned around.
‘I just… I just wondered if you were around at lunchtime?’
Kelvin looked around the busy corridor and swallowed.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m not around during break time or lunch time or any time for that matter. Get it?’
He nodded, flabbergasted. Kelvin walked away but after a few paces, he turned around again, his angry expression now regretful.
‘The Panthers gav
e me a choice,’ he said in a low voice, his eyes darting around to check who might be watching. ‘I took the coward’s way out. I’m sorry.’
And then he was gone.
* * *
During the first couple of weeks back, he slowly caught up with his schoolwork again. Mr Sherwin had sent work home throughout his time off and that had helped him ease back into his lessons again.
In fact, lesson time was easy. Breaks and lunchtimes and the evenings were by far the worst.
He had spotted the Panthers gang marauding around the school grounds and he knew, from their shouts and nudges, that they had spotted him, too.
It was exhausting, constantly being on one’s guard. He never relaxed, not even at night when he slept in a dorm quite apart from where the Panthers and the other older boys boarded.
But their reach was long.
One night he climbed into bed, his body aching and heavy, longing for the temporary release of sleep, to find his bed soaking wet. When the other boys started laughing and someone snapped on the lights, he saw his saturated sheet was stained yellow. The urine had soaked through to the mattress.
During the day he was on high alert, never walking anywhere before checking out the surroundings. Once he was out in the open, journeys took three times as long, a combination of his injured leg and the fact he stopped often to check behind him and all around him, especially in places where people could easily hide.
This constant surveillance, paired with his physical injuries, exhausted him.
Despite this vigilance, on his third day back, the Panthers ambushed him when he turned the corner into the quad.
‘You really must be more careful and watch where you’re going,’ one boy said, standing so close their shoulders touched. ‘Clumsy oaf, falling down the stairs like that.’
Sniggers from the rest of the group.
His heart pounded harder when the tall, blonde boy pushed his way to the front.
‘I want to know why you came back at all.’ He pushed his face closer. ‘Why didn’t you just curl up and die, or run away like a coward… like your mother?’
He lifted his chin in disdain and for a moment, the boy braced himself to throw his body weight back, certain he was about to be headbutted.
But after a guttural noise, a large blob of gob hit his left cheek, just below his eye.
Every day after that, the tall boy spat on him, sometimes without saying a word. As the first couple of weeks went on, he found himself relieved at the act because he knew, after that, he could get on with his day.
But at the end of lessons, anxiety gripped him like an icy hand around his throat the second the bell sounded. He felt sure that on several occasions, he’d seen Kelvin glance sympathetically in his direction.
It was difficult, on crutches, to skulk around until most people were back in lessons and to use the longest routes around the school to avoid the busiest areas. At the end of his first week back, he was last out of history class. He made his way steadily down the corridor, keeping his eyes on the double doors at the end. The corridor was dim and his crutch made a tapping nose on the tiled floor.
As he drew closer to the exit, he suddenly felt disorientated, unsure of which way to walk. He stopped and leaned against the wall, shaking, gasping for air. His crutch fell to the floor with a clatter as his heart hammered with sickening irregularity against the wall of his chest.
It was his first panic attack and one of many. That night he telephoned his father.
‘I’m struggling, Father. They’re giving me a hard time here.’
He heard his father speak to someone in the background.
‘Sorry, I’m still at the office. What did you say?’
‘Could I come home, find another school? I’m struggling here, not quite fitting in, I’m afraid.’
His father’s laugh was hard and hacking.
‘The school maketh the man, mark my words. If you give up when the going gets tough you’ll achieve precisely nothing in life.’
Someone spoke again at his father’s end.
‘It’s just… I didn’t tell you everything, about the accident, I mean. It wasn’t really what I said… a fall, I mean.’
‘My meeting’s about to start,’ his father interrupted. ‘Look, you’re due for an interim home visit in a weeks’ time. We can chat then.’
It was true the principal had agreed he could take a few weekend home visits for a while, to help ease him back into the routine following his long absence.
‘Bye, Dad,’ he said faintly but the silence told him his father had already ended the call.
* * *
Things did improve slightly when he discovered a surprising oasis in the middle of all the danger; he found a new passion for the library.
His previous aversion to reading disappeared almost overnight when he began to devour books, his favourite being in the non-fiction genre, during the difficult lunchtime period and often after school.
He found he was particularly enthralled by books about World War II, in which he knew his great-grandad, an army doctor, had served his country. He sat for many hours in the relative peace and warmth, feeling safe amongst the myriad of bookshelves.
Mrs Dunmore, the school librarian, soon got to know him by name and made a point of setting aside any new books she thought might pique his interest.
One day, he spotted a book on Mrs Dunmore’s desk. He stared at the title. Still in its plastic shrink wrapping, it had been marked for immediate return to the publisher. An elastic band secured a white note that bore Mrs Dunmore’s handwritten words: ‘Unsuitable for this age group. Do not resend.’
While she was stamping and categorising new books over the other side, he sauntered by the desk and slipped the book inside his rucksack.
He’d been skipping eating tea in the main hall for a few days now. He soon got used to the hunger pangs and he didn’t mind the solitude. At home, he’d been used to his father retiring to his study until late – no interruptions allowed, his father always said, ‘unless your hair is on fire’ – he sat alone, in the lamplight of the lounge and read the book from cover to cover.
Nineteen
The boys are getting ready to go over for a kickabout in the garden later with Leonard, but Brenda calls me first thing.
‘I’d like to ask the boys something, if you don’t mind, Darcy,’ she says.
I put the call on to loudspeaker. She often talks to them directly like this, and it’s usually to propose something nice, so I have no problem motivating them to gather around the telephone.
‘Harrison, Kane… are you there?’ Brenda’s voice calls out.
‘Yes, Grandma,’ they chime in unison, their faces alight with anticipation.
‘Grandad’s been offered late tickets to go the Nottingham Forest footie game and he wants to know if you’d like to go with him and then come back here for a picnic tea and a camp-out overnight in the playroom?’
Sure enough, there are whoops of delight and squeals of approval. During the finer weather, Leonard often pitches a tent in their large garden, and in the winter, it moves into the playroom.
I’ve never understood why the boys prefer to sleep on the floor in a tent rather than in the comfy bunk beds they have at their grandparents’ house, but there you go. That’s kids for you.
‘I’ll take that as a yes then, shall I?’ Brenda laughs.
‘Thanks, Brenda,’ I say, genuinely thrilled that my boys are so happy.
‘Nonsense,’ she says brightly. ‘We love having them, as you know. What are you going to do with yourself? If you want to come over, you and I can—’
‘Honestly, I’ve got lots to do,’ I say quickly. ‘There’s paperwork from my new classes to sort out, and it’ll be quite nice to have a bath and read a book or something. Thanks for the offer, though.’
‘Well, if you change your mind, you’ve only to say. I expect you’ve been worrying about the house sale.’
Harrison looks at me, ala
rmed.
‘The boys are still in the room, Brenda,’ I say meaningfully. ‘Probably best we speak about it some other time.’
‘Of course.’ She pauses, then, ‘Len and I just want you to know, if you do need to move, there’s always space here for you all so don’t think you’d be—’
‘Thanks Brenda, I appreciate that. Must dash.’
The boys call out their goodbyes and when the call has finished, Harrison sidles up to me.
‘Why did Grandma say we might have to move house?’
‘Oh, it was to do with something Auntie Steph said the other day. Nothing for you to worry about, pudding.’
I gather together a few discarded items of clothing from the sofa and chair and head for the stairs. But Harrison is not to be dissuaded.
‘I like living here in this house,’ he says firmly. ‘Dad used to live here, too, and I don’t want to move away.’
‘I don’t either,’ Kane echoes from the Lego tower he’s currently building.
‘I hear you both,’ I say, non-committally.
Try telling that to Daniela Frost.
* * *
‘I’ll come and pick you up,’ George says. ‘I wanted to ask…’
‘Yes?’
‘There’s no pressure whatsoever, but if you’d like to’ – he sounds uncharacteristically awkward – ‘you can stay over. At mine. Or not… that’s absolutely fine too.’
I’m silent for a moment, and then we both burst out laughing, which feels like a relief.
‘I made a bit of a mess of that, didn’t I?’ I can see him cringing at the end of the line.
‘No! It’s fine.’
‘Really? I wanted to ask, but if you feel it’s too soon, or—’
‘I’d love to,’ I say quickly before I can talk myself out of it.
‘You would?’
‘Yes, I would.’
‘That’s amazing.’ He blows out air. ‘Pack an overnight bag and I’ll be there to pick you up at eleven.’
