My Husband's Wife (38 page)

She nodded; it had in fact been an exceptional day. A bubble of excitement floated from her stomach up into her throat.

‘How did netball go?’

‘We won! Despite the umpire being really rubbish. She was totally on their side. I was trying to shoot and their goal attack made contact, loads of times! She just overlooked it! And it was right in front of her. I wanted to go mad, but I knew I’d get into trouble so I didn’t say anything.’

‘But you won anyway?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, there’s a lesson there then.’ He nodded sagely.

‘What lesson?’ Jacks pushed up the sleeves of her cardigan.

Her dad scratched his chin. ‘I’m damned if I know, probably something like, it’s good to think before you act, keep a calm head, that kind of thing. But you won anyway, so who cares!’

He trotted over and placed his cigarette-free hand around her shoulders, pulling her towards him and kissing her scalp. He then showered her with a handful of cut grass he’d gathered for the purpose.

Jacks shrieked and jumped backwards, shaking her long hair as she patted her shirt and skirt. ‘Da-ad!’ She instinctively looked towards the kitchen window, where her mum stood at the sink with pursed lips and a straight back. Jacks felt the disapproval dripping off her.

‘Ooh, look, the fun police are on patrol.’ Her dad jerked his head towards the house and pulled a wide mouth. ‘No spontaneous laughter, you have been warned!’ He winked at her.

She wanted to laugh, to come back with a retort, but the feeling that she was being disloyal to her mum kept her silent. It had always been that way. As an only child she regularly felt like a referee, caught in the middle of their daily, long-drawn-out battle.

‘Got any homework?’ he asked.

‘A bit. I’ve got to read a scene from Oscar Wilde’s
An Ideal Husband
. And I have to draw a graph for business studies.’

‘An ideal husband? Well, I can help with that. It was probably written about me!’ He leant back and laughed loudly.

‘Not sure Mum would agree.’ Jacks pulled her bag up on to her shoulder and made towards the house.

‘Love, if I said black, your mother would say white. She doesn’t agree with anything I say.’

Jacks ignored him and pushed open the back door. Not wanting the seesaw of emotions to spoil this wonderful day.

‘Tea’s nearly ready.’ Her mum spoke quietly as she poured a steady stream of salt into a pan of boiling water, into which she would tip the carrots she had peeled and sliced. ‘You’ve got a few minutes if you want to take your stuff upstairs and get settled. I’m just going to lay the table.’

Jacks nodded, her eyes wandering over the mess that her mum always created when she prepared the evening meal.

‘What were you and Dad laughing about? I saw you larking about in the garden.’ Ida smiled briefly as she gathered the knives and forks and the tomato ketchup bottle.

‘Nothing.’ Jacks shrugged, feeling her cheeks flame as though laughing with her dad was not allowed.

She climbed the stairs, kicked off her shoes and pushed her over-the-knee socks down, rubbing where the tight elastic had cut into her thigh, before flopping down on her bed. She stared up at her poster of Take That before pulling her notepad from her bag. She wrote the word for the first time, encircling it in a heart.
Sven. Sven.
This was the word that danced in her mind and sat on her tongue.
Sven.
He had been at school for the last six months, but apart from her having noticed his shock of blonde hair and rather nifty home-knitted jumpers, they had had little contact. He was one of the clever kids and was in some of her classes, and she had listened and smirked with her mates at his pronunciation of certain words, which often left a lot to be desired. She had watched in the dinner queue as some of the boys in the football team had asked if he was a member of Abba and if his mum and dad owned a Volvo. He had responded quickly that they were being ridiculous, of course his parents didn’t own a Volvo, but, yes, he was in fact Agnetha, from Abba.
Sven.
She wrote it again and then wrote
Jackie Lundgren
by the side.

‘Tea’s ready!’ her mum called up the stairs. Jacks shut her notebook and placed it under her pillow, ready for further doodling in later.

She slunk down the stairs, pausing at the hallway mirror to push up under her boobs, which she wished were bigger. Her friend Gina had massive boobs, although comparison was probably stupid as she and Gina were about as opposite-looking as they came. From the side they gave a slight bump to her shirt, but head on, she looked flat.

‘What you looking so glum about Missus?’

She looked up at her mum. ‘Nothing. Just wishing I looked a bit more like Gina.’

‘Gina?’ Her dad laughed. ‘You’re kidding! I’m not being mean, but if ever there was a girl that had to rely on her brains, it’s her. You, on the other hand, can do like the rest of the family and use your good looks to get you far.’ He batted his eyelashes.

‘Don’t flatter yourself. Your side of the family maybe, but my dad was very clever.’ Ida muttered as she put the plate in front of her daughter. ‘He was quite high up at the Gas Board. A very astute man, had a small fortune in Premium Bonds.’

Her dad pulled a funny face. ‘Oh yes, the mysterious Premium Bonds! Tell you what, Ida, if they really existed, we’d have cashed them in years ago and had a couple of weeks in Tenerife! But until I see evidence of their existence, it’ll be a week in the caravan as usual.’ He laughed.

Jacks studied the carrots, peas, boiled spuds and individual chicken pie that had puffed up on top, just the way she liked it.

‘Cor, this is lovely!’ She watched as her dad, with his mouth full, winked at his wife and she saw the way her mum’s face split with joy at the compliment he gave. As if she couldn’t help it. Jacks chased the peas around the plate and wondered what Swedish people ate for tea.

‘Penny for them, Dolly Daydream?’ Her dad reloaded his fork with gravy-rich pastry and a couple of carrots.

‘Huh?’ Jacks hadn’t been listening.

‘You’re miles away, not still brooding over your biased umpire?’

She shook her head. ‘No. I was just wondering what Swedish people have for their tea.’

‘Ryvita probably. That’s Swedish.’ Her mum nodded, certain of the fact.

‘And fermented herring,’ her dad added. ‘I remember a bloke I worked with on the rigs telling me about it. They let the fish go off in a tin and then eat it the next year, or something like that.’

‘God, that sounds horrible!’ Jacks grimaced.

‘Why the interest in Swedish food all of a sudden?’ Her dad spoke with his mouth full and a couple of peas nearly made a quick getaway; he pushed them back in with his tongue.

‘No reason, it’s just a boy in my year is Swedish, he’s called Sven.’ She was delighted to have the opportunity to mention him, to say his name out loud.

‘Sven, eh? Isn’t he one of the blokes from Abba?’ Don smiled at his daughter.

Jacks laughed loudly. ‘No! He’s very clever and funny and...’ She once again pictured his face, his thick hair, his intense stare. ‘His dad’s an architect, works in Bristol, lots of kids take the p... mick out of him, but I think he’s just quirky, a bit different.’

She saw the look her parents exchanged. ‘Thought you liked Peter Davies?’ her mum asked as she squashed peas on to the back of her fork.

‘I do. But we’re just mates.’ Jacks concentrated on her plate of food, trying to erase the memory of their snog on the dancefloor of Mr B’s nightclub.

‘His mum thinks you’re more than mates, she told me you were going out with him. And he’s quite smitten apparently,’ Ida commented innocuously.

Jacks cringed. She had moved on from Pete and to be reminded of their connection irritated her. ‘Pete’s a plonker. Walks around like he’s Gary Lineker.’

‘He’s got a trial with Bristol City,’ her mum added, passing on more snippets of gossip.

‘Yes and don’t we know it, it’s all he talks about. Sven isn’t sporty, he’s going to go to university.’

‘Sven, Sven, Sven! I think I know someone else who’s a bit smitten.’ Her mum spoke to her dad over the table as if she wasn’t present.

‘I’m not!’ Jacks shouted. ‘He’s just a boy in my year, that’s all!’

‘Good,’ her dad said. ‘Peter’s a nice boy and we know his mum.’

‘What’s that got to do with anything?’ Jacks shouted back.

‘Stop yelling!’ Ida said. ‘There’s no need for dramatics.’

‘Dramatics? I don’t think I’m being dramatic, there’s you both telling me I practically have to marry Peter Davies just cos you know his mum!’

‘We never said anything of the sort!’ Ida tutted. ‘Honestly, Jackie!’

‘Good, cos I think I can do a bit better than a footballer who’s going to leave school with just enough qualifications to work in Maccy D’s.’

‘Don’t be so mean,’ Ida said.

‘I’m not, just truthful. Pete’s all right, but he’s not really my type. He’s staying in Weston, close to a football field, and I want to go to college and travel.’

‘To Sweden?’ her mum asked.

‘She can go anywhere she likes, can’t you, love?’ Her dad, ever supportive, smiled at her.

Ida placed her cutlery on the plate. ‘Of course she can. I didn’t say she couldn’t!’

‘No, but your face implied otherwise.’ Don shook his head.

‘Well, we all know you’d rather not have to look at my face.’

‘Oh, here we go...’

Jacks slipped from the table and up the stairs. She lay on her bed and could hear the burble of their row rising up through the floor. Flipping open her notebook, she ran the nib of her pen over the heart in which sat the name of the object of her affection.
Sven.

Jacks opened the cupboard under the stairs, unhooked her pale linen duster coat with oversized wooden buttons from the back of the door and slipped her slender frame into it. She pulled on her battered brown cowboy boots and picked up her car keys and the box of recycling that Pete had sorted for Jonty.

‘Oh, Jacks, can you pick up some razor blades? And we need cornflakes, kids have just polished off the last.’ This Pete shouted with his head poking over the banister from upstairs.

Jacks nodded. ‘Will do. See you later. Kids, come on! We are leaving now!’

Out on the pavement in Sunnyside Road, she shoved the box into the boot. ‘Morning, Ivor!’ She raised her hand to wave at the young man who lived next door with his wife; he was loading up his van ready for the day.

‘All right, Jacks! Bit nippy, innit?’ He rubbed his big hands together, a labouring man like Pete.

This made her smile. He, like her husband, seemed constantly surprised by the cold weather. She wanted to remind him that this was September and they lived in Weston-super-Mare, not the Bahamas. ‘Baba okay?’ she shouted back as she walked to the driver’s side – he and his wife Angela had an eight-week-old boy, Jayden.

‘Sound as a pound!’ He grinned. ‘Keeping us up all hours, screaming and shouting to be fed.’ He tutted.

‘Ah, sounds like mine and she’s eighty-one.’ She laughed.

‘Could be worse, Jacks.’ He laughed and she laughed too, although she wasn’t sure why. ‘Hope he doesn’t keep you awake,’ he said sheepishly.

‘Mate, don’t forget I’ve got two, been there done that. You have to not worry about him, he’s part of our little neighbourhood and that’s his way of letting us all know he’s here. He’s just chatting.’

Ivor picked up his toolbox and stowed it in the back. Jacks noted a flask and sandwich box and thought how lovely that Angela found time to make her man his lunch. Poor old Pete, who now had to make do with a quick drive-through when time allowed.

‘I just wish he’d chat between the hours of nine and five and the rest of the time keep quiet!’ Ivor chuckled.

‘Ah, if only it were that simple.’ She smiled as the kids ran from the front door, leaving it open for their dad to shut behind them as they jumped in the car.

‘
I
heard that baby last night. Drives me nuts.’ Martha tutted.

‘Oh, he’s a sweet little thing,’ Jacks said.

‘He’s a squirmy pink little thing that shouts a lot, very loudly. He just poos, sleeps and shouts. Don’t see what’s sweet about that.’

‘It’s different when it’s your own, you’ll see.’ Jacks laughed.

‘It’d have to be.’

‘All buckled up?’ Jacks asked.

They ignored her as usual, as the idea of not buckling up had never occurred to them.

*

Jacks parked in the lay-by and waved Jonty first and then Martha into their adjoining schools. She watched as her son wrestled with his school bag and the shallow box full of beer cans, the exercise hampered somewhat by his hands that were, as ever, covered by at least three inches of sleeve on his too-big sweatshirt that had to last the year.

‘Bless him. Clifton bloody Suspension Bridge!’ And she laughed, before letting the window roll down an inch and breathing deeply.

There was a bus that practically went door to door on the four-mile round-trip to school. In fact, she allowed the kids to travel home under their own steam as long as they were together or with friends. Pete had offered on more than one occasion to take them in, but Jacks always refused the help. This daily venture out in the car meant so much more to her than simply dropping the kids off. It was the only twenty minutes in the entire day that she was completely alone, where no one could get to her, and she needed it.

Sitting back in the seat, with her head on the headrest, she took another deep breath. The faintest scent of her dad still lingered in the fabric and she welcomed it, letting this small fragment of him envelop her in a hug. A vast black 4x4 pulled in behind her, dispensed three blonde children of various ages from the back seat and quickly pulled out again. Jacks looked into the car as it passed and caught sight of the occupants: the female passenger had a large pair of sunglasses on, despite the chilly morning, and pouted into the vanity mirror of the sun visor as she applied a coat of lipstick, pressing her lips together against a tissue to blot and spread.

Jacks closed her eyes and pictured herself in the passenger seat of one of those huge flashy cars. Her mind wandered further and suddenly she was no longer alone. Sven was in the driver’s seat. ‘Where to?’ he asked. ‘My meeting’s been cancelled and we’ve got the whole day.’