The Mum Who'd Had Enough Page 8

  As I empty the mower’s grass container, a particularly unsettling image forms in my brain: of some dashing bloke – Hugh Grant at his peak – sauntering into the gift shop and being overwhelmed by the confusing array of candles on offer. Gosh, he really can’t decide! He glances over at the woman sitting at the till, registers her gorgeousness and falls instantly in love.

  Meanwhile, at my work, I have people referring to me as ‘that lanky fucker with the glasses’.

  Back indoors, as I wipe down the entire upstairs’ skirting boards – so much dust! How come I’d never noticed before? – it occurs to me that I really should have stood up to Mum years ago, whenever she was offhand or downright rude to my wife. Mum was never like that with Kate Whickham, the girl I was seeing just before I met Sinead. Kate who’d been to Oxford and whose family ‘owned land’, and was working as a consultant, which seemed to impress Mum hugely, even though she didn’t fully understand what a consultant actually did. Meanwhile Sinead, who was awash with orders for her jewellery, was regarded with suspicion right from the start. ‘She seems nice enough,’ Mum said coolly, after their first meeting.

  Frozen pizza and oven chips aren’t exactly top-quality fare, but it’s what the boys want for dinner and, anyway, we can eat whatever we want now and to hell with it. I walk Scout in the rain, which seems to suit the new weekend mood. Back home, soaked to the bones, I run a bath and clamber into it, convincing myself that of course Sinead isn’t out on a date right now, canoodling in some bar with her tongue in someone’s mouth, but merely watching a box set with Abby.

  I mean, she left me on Wednesday night and it’s only Sunday evening. Surely no one could meet someone that quickly, unless … she’s been seeing someone else all along?

  I eye my phone, which I have placed on the side of the bath in case she wants to talk to me. A text pings in from my mother: Very upset after the way you snapped at me today. Spoke to Joe. We are both v worried. He thinks you might be having some kind of breakdown?

  Let them think what they want, I decide, placing my phone back on the side of the bath and reclining into the warm water. Let them discuss my mental health and the fact that I was a little offish with Mum today. However, I know the truth. My first weekend without my wife is, thankfully, almost over and – whilst hardly brimming with joie de vivre – I have at least survived it.

  ‘I’m not going to fall apart,’ I say aloud.

  And now, when I run through Sinead’s list in my head, another idea starts to form in my mind. Never mind all this cleaning and weeding and snapping at Mum. A kind, loving gesture is what’s needed: something to prove to Sinead that I’m capable of making everything right. I’ll get onto it tomorrow and choose her something thoughtful. But right now, I sense myself drifting, lulled by comforting thoughts of Sinead’s surprised but delighted expression as I turn up at Abby’s with … well, I don’t know what exactly. But I’m sure I’ll think of something.

  It’s my wife’s heart-lifting smile I’m thinking of as I stretch out and knock my iPhone with my elbow so it plummets, with a small splash, to the bottom of the bath.

  Chapter Ten

  Sinead

  It’s 7.45 a.m. when my mobile rings. Wrapped in a towel, I race from Abby’s bathroom to my bedroom in order to retrieve it. HOME is displayed on the screen.

  ‘Hello?’ I bark in panic. No one ever uses our house phone.

  ‘Hi,’ Nate says.

  ‘Nate? What is it? What’s wrong?’ It comes out more sharply than I’d intended.

  ‘Erm, nothing. I just …’

  ‘Why are you calling me on the landline?’

  ‘Er, my mobile’s a bit damp. It’s drying out in a dish of rice …’

  ‘I’m sorry but that never works …’

  He grunts. ‘Yeah, well, worth a try. So, um—’

  ‘Nate,’ I cut in, ‘I’m just out of the shower. I’m standing here wrapped in a towel and I really need to get ready for work.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, I know,’ he says quickly. ‘I won’t keep you. All I wanted to say was, could we meet up after work?’

  I frown and perch on the edge of the bed. ‘Um … I can’t tonight, Nate. I’m sorry. Why, is there something—’

  ‘Oh, I just thought we could have a drink,’ he says lightly. ‘Or dinner, maybe? Would you like that?’

  ‘Sorry, but I really don’t think we’re at that stage yet where we can sit together and have a nice chat over a bottle of wine, do you?’

  ‘Er … I don’t know,’ he mutters.

  A fresh wave of guilt washes over me. ‘I’m not saying we can’t ever see each other like that,’ I add. ‘It’s just … a bit too soon, isn’t it? I hope you understand.’

  ‘Of course I do,’ he says, more brusquely now. ‘It’s only been, what, five days since—’

  ‘Yes, and I need time, you know. It’s all been so intense and upsetting …’

  He clears his throat. ‘So you’re not up for dinner tonight?’

  ‘No, Nate, because as I’ve just explained—’

  ‘I get that. I do listen to you, you know …’

  A silence hangs in the air between us.

  ‘How about tomorrow, then?’ he asks.

  ‘No!’ I reply, more emphatically now.

  ‘Okay, okay! So not dinner just yet. What about a coffee tomorrow – or just a walk, or a drive—’

  ‘I can’t,’ I say quickly.

  I can sense him frowning. ‘Why not? Are you … doing something else?’

  ‘Er, yes,’ I reply. ‘I’m doing something tonight and tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh, right! So, where are you going? Or should I say, who are you seeing?’

  ‘Nate!’ I exclaim. ‘What are you implying here?’

  ‘I don’t know. You tell me! Although I suppose there’s no need, is there? Not now we’re apart and can do whatever the hell we want …’

  ‘Could you just listen a minute?’ Now it’s my turn to snap. ‘You can imply what you want, and it’s up to you whether you believe me or not – but I can tell you right now I’m not seeing anyone else. It’s the last thing I’m looking for …’

  ‘Okay,’ he murmurs. ‘Sorry, sorry …’

  My heart is hammering now as I pull the towel tighter around myself. ‘Look, I’m just seeing Rachel tonight, okay?’

  ‘Rachel? On a Monday?’

  ‘Yes, Nate. I just felt I needed an urgent appointment, after everything that’s happened. She had a cancellation so she could fit me in—’

  ‘So, you’re having emergency therapy now?’

  ‘It’s only one extra session …’

  ‘You’ll be moving in with her next!’ Christ, does he really think this is helping? Actually, it is – because at least it’s clear now what I’ve been living with all these years. I replay what Abby said last night, over a bottle of wine: I know you’d never have done this on a whim. So you know in your heart that you’ve probably done the right thing …

  ‘I really must get ready,’ I murmur.

  ‘So, how about tomorrow night? What are you doing then?’

  ‘Actually, Flynn’s coming over for the evening.’

  ‘Is he? That’s nice!’ he says facetiously.

  I exhale loudly. ‘Hasn’t he mentioned it?’

  ‘Um, no,’ Nate retorts. ‘He did say he’s going to start getting the bus to school now, though. I suppose that’s okay, isn’t it?’

  ‘Er, I guess so,’ I reply. ‘I mean, of course it is, if that’s what he wants.’

  ‘Maybe he’s just worried I’ll park on the zigzags again …’

  ‘You parked on the zigzags?’ I gasp.

  ‘Yeah. I wasn’t thinking. So, this evening you’re having together …’

  ‘I just want to spend time with him. I’m sure you understand that …’

  ‘Yeah, that’s great,’ he mutters.

  I stand up and delve into the dressing table drawer where I have stashed my underwear. ‘We’re just going to hang out h
ere,’ I go on. ‘Watch a movie, order in a pizza …’

  ‘Oh!’ he crows. ‘Will there be popcorn too?’

  I grab at a tangle of knickers and tights and let them fall to the floor. ‘There’s no need to be like that. I’m not taking him to Florida for two weeks. We’re just going to sit and watch a silly comedy …’

  ‘Yes, okay,’ he mutters, sounding ashamed now.

  Another silence falls. ‘I’m still happy to drop round at lunchtimes on work days and let Scout into the garden, if that makes things easier …’

  ‘Erm, yeah, that’d be great. I’ll have to sort out a dog walker at some point …’

  ‘Well, until you do, I’ll hang onto my key and take care of it.’ I pause. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t just let myself in at other times. When you’re there, I mean—’

  ‘You can come round whenever you want!’ he exclaims.

  I clear my throat. ‘I just thought you might feel uncomfortable about it.’

  ‘Why? What d’you think I’ll be doing? Having an orgy or something?’

  This stuns me for a moment. ‘For God’s sake, I wasn’t implying that. But, you know, if that’s what you want …’

  ‘Oh, right! So that would be okay, would it?’

  ‘Can we stop this please?’ I snap at him. ‘Do whatever you want. I’m going now, okay? I really need to get ready for work.’

  We finish the call in a fug of ill humour. As I dress quickly, an unsettling image forms in my mind, of Nate being cajoled into taking part in some kind of driving examiners’ orgy, with everyone clutching their official clipboards with those mysterious checklists and forms they have to fill in. There’d be someone nominated, I guess, to mark down careless manoeuvres and incorrect signalling, which I imagine would kill the fun somewhat.

  Ready for work now, I find Abby in the kitchen. We perch on high stools at her kitchen island, where she has set out croissants, a bowl of scrambled eggs and another of fat, gleaming strawberries. It’s like a mini hotel breakfast buffet here, although most mornings all I can face is a strong coffee and a bite of croissant. ‘Just had Nate on the phone,’ I tell her, ‘wanting to meet up.’

  ‘Really? What did you say?’

  ‘I told him I’m just not ready for that. God, he sounded so … agitated, Abs. Going on about whether it’s okay for him to have orgies now …’

  ‘Nate?’ she exclaims. ‘Having orgies?’

  ‘Oh, he was just being ridiculous, you know. Of course he’s upset—’

  ‘He’ll be okay, given time,’ she says. ‘At least, he’ll accept it eventually.’

  I nod wordlessly.

  ‘I know you hate hurting him,’ she adds gently.

  ‘Yes, I really do.’

  Tears fuzz my vision, and anxiety gathers deep in my gut as I sip my coffee and try to eat. Abby hugs me tightly, and I set off to work on this bright-skied May morning. I just wish the day hadn’t started with Nate’s call. Now I’m picturing him and Flynn having breakfast together, trying to behave as if everything’s normal; then our boy shambling off, with that wrecked old bag he refuses to throw away, to catch the bus to school.

  I rub at my eyes as I stride down Abby’s road, through her new-build estate towards the town centre. It’s a brisk twenty-minute walk to the gift shop. I could have opted to drive, but am hoping that walking will help to clear my head. As I reach town, the bus passes me. Maybe Flynn’s on it; I can’t bear to look. I miss him so much, and I’ve only been gone for five days. Flynn’s been on numerous week-long trips with school and the Scouts, and I managed fine then – although of course, that was different. Now, I feel hollow with longing. That’s just being a parent, I suppose. You have that bond, like no other, from the moment you first hold them in your arms.

  Our baby boy was born during a stormy February night when Nate and I were twenty-seven years old. Although that’s not super-young, the pregnancy had been unplanned, and this was way before any of our friends had babies. I don’t think any of us possessed more than two sets of bed linen. The nappy aisle in Asda might as well have been the Kalahari Desert, it was that mysterious to us.

  The pregnancy was the result of a condom mishap in a B&B in Barry Island in Wales after our friends Dave and Di’s wedding. But we were thrilled. We’d been together for two years, and talked about having a baby ‘one day’, and now it was happening – just a little sooner than anticipated.

  Flynn was born after a terribly long and painful labour, which I’d intended to get through with some gentle acoustic guitar music – entitled ‘happy birth day, darling’ – which Nate, my clever musician boyfriend, had written and recorded especially for the occasion. However, in the event, it involved every drug available, an awful lot of yelling and, at one point, my protesting that there was no way this baby was going to come out; he or she would just have to stay inside me, forever. When Flynn finally emerged, wailing his little lungs out, we fell in love with him immediately.

  Having decided to formalise things like the proper grown-ups we were now, Nate and I got married at Hesslevale registry office when Flynn was five months old. Nate looked terribly dashing in a smart but second-hand navy blue suit, while I’d chosen a simple vintage shift dress to wear with flat DMs, a cropped black leather jacket and an intricate fine silver necklace I’d made myself. I was a mother and a bride, but I still looked like a student. In those days I fiercely avoided anything that could be termed as ‘mum-wear’ (i.e., leggings, big sweaters, voluminous T-shirts) and clung to the belief that if I could manage to slap on a coat of lipstick, then everything would be okay.

  When we’d met, Nate had been living in a shared house, perched on the bank of the canal in Hesslevale. I’d been happy to give up my ropey studio flat in Leeds and settle in Hesslevale with him, as it was a town I’d always liked; we moved into a rented flat above a coffee shop, then to the Victorian terrace where we’ve lived for seventeen years. We were the first among our friends to get a mortgage – hurtling into a proper adult existence. But it felt right. We were crazily in love, and I thought our life was perfect.

  We even managed to come to terms with Flynn’s diagnosis eventually. Having being warned that Flynn might never walk or talk – it was too early to tell, the specialists said – Nate and I launched ourselves into devouring every scrap of info we could possibly get hold of. We were a team back then, a rock-solid duo, and refused to think of CP as a disability at all. In fact, we despised the word.

  By three and a half, after copious speech and physical therapy, Flynn was both walking and talking. Although his particular gait and indistinct speech attracted attention, Nate and I had developed what we thought of as armadillo armour – solid, unbreakable – so those curious or pitying glances bounced right off us.

  ‘Isn’t he clumsy, poor lad!’ a stranger once remarked as Flynn manoeuvred himself awkwardly onto a climbing frame.

  ‘He has cerebral palsy,’ I explained, taking care not to let any annoyance creep into my voice.

  ‘Oh my God, I’m so sorry!’ The elderly woman clasped a hand over her mouth.

  ‘No, please don’t apologise,’ I assured her. ‘You weren’t to know.’ I smiled to mask my irritation at her having made the comment in the first place.

  Crucially, Nate and I stopped taking exception to phrases such as ‘gross motor function’ (‘He’s our son, for God’s sake – not a malfunctioning car!’). We were the devoted parents of a thriving little boy, supported by dedicated professionals and the other parents we met through groups we attended. And, once they knew why Flynn couldn’t scale that climbing frame quite as adeptly as other kids of his age, those strangers in the park were unfailingly kind.

  Plus, we had Flynn’s grandparents. Judy’s – ahem – views can be somewhat hard to stomach; however, she was happy to babysit, and we accepted her offers gratefully. Until his sudden death from heart failure, we also had quietly-spoken Arthur, my father-in-law, whose shed was filled with tools and half-built things, and was a perpetual sourc
e of fascination for Flynn. Then there are my own parents, Cathy and Brendan, who have always doted on Flynn and never once complained about that eight-hour drive from St Ives to visit us. My older sister Marie, whilst rather formidable and living way down in Brighton, has also been attentive and unfailingly generous at birthdays in providing the table tennis, the bike and the Xbox console that we would have struggled to afford.

  And so we managed, and Flynn became a teenager who was just as unthinking and irritating as any other. However, he is also – and I realise I’m naturally biased here – the most fantastic young man: determined and proud, having constantly surpassed anyone else’s predictions of what he might achieve. And I try to never forget that, even when I discover he’s doctored an old passport in order to create a fake ID, and stolen whisky miniatures from what we grandly term our ‘drinks cabinet’ and filled the empty boxes with chalks and Christmas tree baubles because, of course, that way, we’d never know!

  Cerebral palsy is just another part of him, like his humour and brilliance at playing guitar, despite his difficulties; like his determination to perfect the microwave cake-cooking method and his whisky-thieving tendencies.

  Having arrived at the shop now, I unlock the door and switch on the lights. Most days I’m here on my own; Vicky is overseeing the re-fitting of a second shop in Solworth. I’m doing the rounds, checking that everything is perfectly arranged, when my mobile trills: an unknown number.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Just me,’ Nate says. ‘I’m ringing from the work phone. Sorry, I’m sure you’re busy—’