Mum on the Run (27 page)

Chapter Forty-Four

Jed wasn’t working, those days he spent away from us. Couldn’t face school, he told me, which is unheard of. I have never known Jed to throw a sickie. Even after that teacher’s leaving do, when he woke up sweating and groaning, he hauled himself in and battled, heroically, through the day. I’m not sure if he chose The Railway Hotel (a few seconds’ walk from Cut ‘n’ Pierce) because it was the cheapest on offer, or due to the fact that its grottiness matched the way he felt inside.

He’s back at school now. Every day he comes home and has dinner with us, and supervises homework and bathtime and reads stories. It twists my heart to see him doing these dad-things. Then he says a quiet goodbye to me, and he walks into town where he’s staying in Duncan’s spare room above the Indian restaurant. Neither of us knows what will happen, or how long it will take to figure things out. But I do know that I’m not ready to have him back, and that I need time to think, by myself. In fact, I think we both need this space from each other. We can’t just pretend nothing’s happened.

One drizzly Tuesday at work, my new ‘friend’ pops in for yet another blow dry, this time in the style of a ragged photo of Cindy Crawford she’s brought in. At lunchtime, I meet Beth in Café Roma. ‘Why on earth didn’t you call me about any of this?’ she exclaims.

‘Well, you’ve been away. I could hardly ring you on your holiday . . .’

‘You should have,’ she insists. ‘I can’t believe you’ve been through all of this on your own.’

‘I didn’t call anyone, Beth. I was . . . in a sort of fug.’

She squeezes my hand. ‘And you believe everything he’s told you?’

‘Yes, I think so.’

‘You’re still not sure? Is that why he’s staying at Duncan’s?’ She pushes away her half-finished marble cake. Beth always knows when to stop.

‘I need to talk to Celeste,’ I say.

‘Not going to have some huge confrontation, are you? I mean, she’s leaving the country, isn’t she? What would be the point?’

‘No, no,’ I say quickly. ‘It’s nothing like that. I’ve just got something of hers that I need to give back.’

‘What is it?’ Beth asks, her eyes round with curiosity.

I grin at her and pop the last piece of cake into my mouth. My appetite’s returning, and the cake tastes so sweet as it dissolves on my tongue. ‘Her knickers,’ I say.

*

First, though, I have to find them. I begin my search while the kids are lounging in the late afternoon sun in the garden. I plan to be logical and methodical. Qualities I hardly possess in great quantities, admittedly, but a new approach is what’s needed here. First, I empty out my chest of drawers, checking through everything carefully in case the Coco de Mers have become devoured by an old greying nursing bra. While I’m at it, I pile up all the clothes which are no longer ‘me’. There are scruffy jeans in my old size which hang off me now, and vast pregnancy knickers which I’d hung on to ‘just in case’. Just in case what? Jed and I decided to have another baby? Unlikely, at my age, and rumour has it you actually have to do it in order to make one. Anyway, they’re all going. I also separate out my running gear, including my two sports bras which have the reassuringly sturdy names of ‘Ultra Control’ and ‘Absorba-Bounce’.

Still no Cocos, though. I check Jed’s drawers; nothing untoward there, apart from a stash of gardening catalogues hidden under his sweaters, like horticultural porn. I flip through the pages, casting my eyes over the brilliant pink lupins and sizzling red geraniums. Funny things to keep in a sweater drawer.

Moving on to my wardrobe, I find an old white cotton shirt of Dad’s. Mum had passed a few on to us, thinking that the children could wear them for messy art projects, but I hadn’t liked the thought of them being splattered with paint, and donated most of them to charity. This one I’d kept. Slipping it on over my top, I’m surprised to see how healthy my face looks against its soft whiteness.

My phone bleeps, making me jump. RUNNING THIS EVE? Danny’s text reads. RACE IS LOOMING . . .

SORRY NOT TONITE, I reply. Don’t feel like running with Danny right now. Our time together was entangled with Jed and me at our lowest ebb. Anyway, I need to do tonight’s run alone.

CAN WE MEET? HAVE SOMETHING TO TELL YOU, he pings back. Without replying, I slip my phone back into my jeans pocket.

Still wearing Dad’s shirt, I scour Grace’s room, then investigate Finn’s unsavoury sleeping quarters in the hope that the missing knickers have accidentally been put away with his clothes. His schoolbag lies in the middle of the room, disgorging its contents all over the floor. A sole Monster Munch has been crushed into the carpet, and a Rolo wrapper lies in a delicate curl. I spot the red notebook poking out from beneath a pair of football shorts. I pick it up, my fingers twitching, and I hold my breath, listening for footsteps on the stairs. Kneeling down on the carpet, I open it and focus on a random page. It’s as if I’ve lost control of my hands and eyes.

Monday,
it reads.
Mum and dad took us to granma and grandads we did the garden.
My eyes blur as I read the careful, blunt-pencilled writing of a seven-year-old Finn.

We planted beens and it grew! We ate them.

I feel light-headed as I read. I’d almost forgotten that this was once my Finn, a boy so young and excited that he forgot that the planting and eating part didn’t happen in one day.

Grandad has loads of flowrs. I piked them with mum cos granddad sayd it was ok.

I remember that. The two of us gathering flowers, when such an activity wasn’t deemed completely embarrassing for Finn.

We got conflowrs.
Cornflowers, he means. My favourites.
Grandad gave us seeds so we can make our garden beter.

The bedroom door creaks. I look up and Finn is staring at me. ‘Uh . . . Mum?’ he says. ‘What are you doing?’

I drop the book on the floor. ‘Oh, Finn. I was just . . .’

He thrusts his hands into his pockets and looks down. ‘S’all right. S’just an old thing.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I murmur, cheeks burning as I retrieve the book, scramble up and place it on his bed. ‘I should never have looked. It was just there and I . . .’

A flicker of tension crosses his lips, and I’m poised for him to spit out some cutting remark. ‘It’s okay. There’s nothing that secret in it really.’

‘I . . . I’m surprised you still have it.’

Finn shrugs and colours a little. ‘I just like it.’

‘Does it remind you of Granddad?’

He nods and sniffs, looking stranded in his own bedroom. Awkwardly, I put my arms around him and hug him, which he endures for several seconds. Then he pulls away, laughing self-consciously, and says, ‘Mum, I’m not sure about this haircut to be honest. I saw this picture in a magazine and I thought . . .’

‘Which magazine?’

‘Dunno. A music magazine.
Kerrang!
or something.’ He sniffs again.

I have to suck my lips together to stop myself from smiling. ‘And you wanted to look like that?’

‘Yeah.’ He stares down at the crushed Monster Munch. ‘It didn’t work, did it? You were right. It’s one of them . . . mallets. So I wondered, would you mind, er . . .’ He mimes a scissor motion with his index and middle finger.

Grinning, I kiss the top of his roughly-chopped head. ‘Of course I will, love,’ I say. ‘Come with me.’

*

I feel privileged, cutting Finn’s hair in the bathroom. He sits patiently on the wobbly wooden chair, not fidgeting or grumbling the way the other two do. Thankfully, he still has plenty of hair to work with. ‘Would it be embarrassing for you,’ I say tentatively, ‘if I was involved in organising an athletics thing at school at the end of term?’

‘What athletics thing?’ he asks.

‘Something Naomi, Phoebe’s mum, wants to set up. And she asked me to help . . .’

‘She asked
you
?’ he splutters.

‘Yes, Finn! I can run, you know. I’m doing that Scarborough 10k. And we’ve been working out routes for cross-country. Would you be okay about that? Or would that be awful for you, having me running with the kids?’

He pauses, and my heart plummets as I steel myself for being dismissed as an embarrassment. ‘Yeah,’ he murmurs.

‘Oh.’ I stop cutting.

‘Yeah,’ he adds. ‘I mean, yeah, that’d be cool. So long as you don’t fall over this time.’ He emits a gurgly laugh.

‘I’ll try not to,’ I say, smiling as I finish the cut. ‘Nearly done,’ I add. ‘I have to say, I wish your little brother sat still for me like you do.’

‘Well, Toby’s mad,’ Finn chuckles.

‘You’re right there.’ I snip a stray hair above his ear.

‘He’s perverted,’ Finn adds, under his breath.

‘Perverted? What d’you mean?’

‘He’s got this . . . this
knicker
thing, yeah? Like, women’s knickers.’ He makes a snorting sound deep in his throat.

‘What, you mean when he and Jack pranced about in my underwear at Grace’s party? Yes, that was pretty mortifying.’

‘Yeah,’ he agrees, clearly warming to his theme, ‘and there’s them ladies’ pants in his bedroom as well.’

I hold my scissors mid-air. ‘What ladies’ pants?’

He laughs again. ‘Fancy ones that tie up, like, here.’ He jabs at his hips. ‘They’re kinda . . . shiny.’

‘Right.’ They don’t sound like any knickers of mine. ‘And they’re in his room? Are you sure?’

‘Yeah. Know what he did? He stuck them to his bookshelf to make a hammock for Ted. Said he wanted a hammock like that one in Celeste’s garden.’

‘Oh, I see. Well, that’s very . . . inventive. What did he stick them up with?’

‘Chewing gum, I think.’

‘Really?’ I manage to finish his cut, even though I’m desperate to retrieve the knickers and figure out how I might go about removing chewing gum from fine silk. I should read the kind of magazines that tell you these things. Placing my scissors on the side of the bath, I dart to Toby’s room. There they are, ribbon ties stuck to the shelf, not with gum, thankfully, but liberal wodges of Blu-Tack. I peel them off, tucking Ted up in Toby’s bed, and check them for damage. They appear to be unscathed.

‘Told you he’s mad,’ Finn says, hovering at my side and running an exploratory hand through his hair.

I smile, taking in my newly-clipped handsome boy. ‘You look good,’ I tell him. ‘It makes you seem older, actually. Not too short, is it?’

‘No, it’s cool. Thanks, Mum.’ He smiles bashfully as we hear Jed arriving home for dad duties. The children haven’t even cottoned on to the fact that he’s still spending the nights at Duncan’s rather than in bed with me. I’ll have to tell them at some point, of course. But for now, in cowardly fashion, I am allowing them to believe that he has started going to work before they get up.

I follow Finn downstairs. ‘Whoa, new man!’ Jed exclaims, appraising Finn’s cut. ‘I like it. More grown-up. Not so . . . mullety.’ He laughs.

‘Everything okay at work?’ I ask.

‘Fine.’ He smiles, going in to greet Toby and Grace in the living room, while I focus all my attention on making a family dinner that will be accepted and enjoyed by all. Except for me, that is. I have an important run tonight, before Jed heads off to his alternative sleeping quarters, and I can’t do that on a full tum.

‘It’s okay, you know,’ he murmurs as I lace up my trainers. ‘I don’t mind if you run with him.’

‘I’m running on my own tonight,’ I say truthfully.

‘Okay, but if you still want to . . .’ He tries for a smile. ‘I mean, I imagine it’s pretty boring, plodding along on your own.’

‘Hey, less of the plodding,’ I tease him. ‘I’ve got a race coming up and I’m in serious training. We’re talking fartleks these days.’

He chuckles, and I sense him appraising me, his slimmed-down sort-of runner of a wife. ‘Well, whatever,’ he adds with a small shrug. ‘I bet it’s good to have some company. I can understand that.’

‘Thanks.’ I pause, wondering if he’s lonely without me at night, and if we’ll ever be a proper couple again. Then I take a deep breath and step out into the cool evening.

*

Celeste’s knickers are in the pocket of my trackie bottoms. I’m hoping their tissue paper wrapping will prevent them from crumpling too much, or becoming tainted by sweat. I decide not to tell her about their temporary incarnation as a hammock for Ted. As I leave town, I realise how strong my legs feel now; running seems almost natural, in the way that I’m no longer conscious of my feet hitting the pavement. I’ve left town behind me now, hardly noticing the neat red-brick terraces petering out into rolling hills and the leafy lane which leads to the mill.

As it comes into view, I remember the first time I came here, annoyed by Jed’s insistence on bringing flowers. Slowing down to a brisk walking pace, I stride across the lawn, trying to figure out why Celeste decided Jed was the one to confide in, to lean on. I pause at the front door, steadying my breath before pressing the buzzer.

‘Hello?’ Her voice sounds tinny through the intercom.

‘Celeste? It’s Laura,’ I say briskly. ‘Hope you don’t mind me dropping by. I have something for you.’

‘Oh, er . . . that’s fine. Come up.’ She buzzes me in.

Emboldened now, I push open the heavy wooden door and head up the cool stone stairs, planning to make this as speedy and businesslike as possible. ‘Hi, Laura.’ She greets me with a small smile at the door to her flat. ‘Wow,’ she adds, her gaze skimming my tracksuit. ‘You haven’t run all this way, have you?’

‘Yes. It’s not that far, is it?’

‘It’s four miles!’ she exclaims.

‘Is it? Well, I enjoyed it, actually.’

‘You must be fit. I could never do that. Like a tea or a coffee? Or some water?’ My heart quickens as she beckons me into the kitchen.

‘Water would be great,’ I say, fishing out the package from my pocket. ‘I brought these for you. Sorry I’ve had them so long.’

She frowns in puzzlement and peels off the tissue wrapper, laughing uncomfortably at the sight of the Coco de Mers. ‘Oh! I’d forgotten all about them.’

Sipping from the glass she’s given me, I watch as she folds them up into a tiny pile and places them on the table. They look outlandish now with their shimmery fabric and ribbon side ties. I clear my throat. ‘Celeste, I’m not sure if you know, but Jed’s sort of not living with me at the moment.’