Summer Daydreams (7 page)
During the short window of time after closing Live and Let Fry and before I collapse into bed with exhaustion next to my darling daughter, I’m also supposed to be wonderfully creative with artwork to take in for the next day. It’s fair to say that my meals of late have been largely chip-based.
I ’m so grateful that Olly and Petal did only have a quickie stomach bug and were both as right as rain again within a couple of days. Is it bad that I don’t have time to either be ill myself or to have my family ailing?
It will get better, I keep telling myself. It has to. Because I can’t really afford for it not to. Everything is riding on this and I’ll let so many people down if I can’t cut it – including myself.
Plus, it seems that my main course tutor, Ms Amelia Fallon, has taken an instant dislike to me. Every time she talks to me she curls her nose up and I wonder if it’s because I am permanently surrounded by
eau de
fish and chips or if there’s another reason for her distaste.
It could well be that I’m the only one on my course who’s always late, always harried, always one step behind everyone else. But then Ms Amelia Fallon seems to have her own issues. She clearly thinks that in her day she should have been the next Vivienne Westwood or Nicole Farhi. I don’t think she ever saw tutoring students at a local art college as her role in life, so I try not to think too many mean thoughts about her. Perhaps if she knew what was going on in my life she would be more sympathetic, cut me some slack.
In my defence, I have been out of formal education for so long, that I’m struggling to get back into it. The last time I was in a classroom was over fourteen years ago. I’m distinctly out of practise. And I wasn’t that great at it, even when I was last at school.
It also feels like I’m a hundred years older than all of the other students, which doesn’t help. They all look so young and carefree, so fresh-faced and impossibly trendy. They all look like they have no commitments, no significant other, no demanding four-year-old, no dog, no evening job at the chip shop. They all look like their mums still do their washing and ironing. They sit around together sipping coffee and gossiping, probably exchanging ridiculously creative ideas and I do not. During all of my breaks, I ring Olly and check that he and Petal are still alive and coping without me. During my lunchtime, I shop for food, pay bills and do all the stuff that real grown-ups have to fit into their lives.
At the chip shop my home-made or vintage clothing makes me stand out as individual, kooky. Here I look as dated as my clothes and although I thought that art courses might attract individuals, all the other students look exactly the same. I know that I need to give myself a fresh image if I have any hope of blending in. But when? When am I actually going to fit this in along with everything else?
‘Back in the room. Back in the room,’ Phil says, clicking his fingers.
I laugh and jerk myself back into the present. ‘I
was
away with the fairies then.’
‘Tell me about it.’
Luckily for me, we have a brief lull in the steady stream of customers needing their chip fix tonight. ‘Thinking about tomorrow’s coursework,’ I lie.
But now that I
do
think about tomorrow’s coursework, I realise that I still have to do it when I get home.
‘Is it all going OK?’
‘Yeah, yeah.’ How can I tell Phil anything else when he is helping me to fund this new venture? ‘It’s fine. Very exciting.’
And it is. In some ways. I’ve already learned so much – I can find my way round a decent camera now, I know the basics of screen printing, I can handle a glue gun and all kinds of other fun stuff. It would just be nice if I had a clone or two. One of me could then go to work and earn the money, one could look after the childcare and the dog’s requirements, one could enjoy this course to the full, and the other one could produce fabulous, nutritionally balanced meals every night shortly before having wild sex with my other half. I am beginning to realise that one person can not hold all this stuff together. But how do I ever get out of this rut if I don’t soldier on?
‘Done the right thing?’
‘Oh, God, absolutely.’ This
is
the right thing. When I’m not worrying about my snotty tutor or how young and silly my fellow students are, I love every minute of it. I adore the things I’m learning and the fact that I feel like I’m bettering myself. If only I had more time, I feel like my creativity would explode out of me like a volcano. Then watch out, world!
Some more customers wander in and our conversation is curtailed, which I’m relieved about. I don’t want Phil to think that I’m not enjoying it or that I’m not supremely grateful.
Half an hour later and we’re shutting up the shop together.
‘You would tell me if there was anything wrong, wouldn’t you?’ Phil says as he locks up and we stand outside on the pavement together in the cold night air.
‘Yeah. Sure. Everything’s fine.’ It’s just that I’m trying to cram a quart into a pint pot.
‘Want a lift home?’
‘Thanks, but I’ll walk. I could do with five minutes of fresh air.’
I set off home, walking through the old part of Hitchin and past my favourite shop. In the window of Betty the Bag Lady, the handbags glint in the moonlight.
I have my foot in Betty’s world now. One day I could be like her and be someone and do something. And nothing that happens is going to make me give up my dream.
‘Why doesn’t Mummy ever come home any more?’ Petal asked Olly.
‘She does.’
‘Does not.’
They were in the kitchen making cupcakes together. Their cakes were safely out of the oven, golden and brown. Baking on a regular basis with his daughter had certainly brought out his own inner Jamie Oliver. Petal was standing on her pink plastic box so that she could reach the kitchen surface and his heart squeezed every time he looked at her. Four years on the planet and he still couldn’t believe this beautiful creature was his child. She was the one amazing thing he’d done in his life and he loved every hair on her head, every pout of her rosebud lips. A surge of joy went through him every time she called his name – except, of course, when it was three in the morning. Then he much preferred it if she wanted her mummy.
The cakes were cooling nicely on a wire rack. Now they were at the critical icing stage.
‘Put this water into the icing sugar. Gently, gently.’ He guided his daughter’s hand as she gripped the spoon, hamfisted. More than once they’d both been covered in a cloud of sweet white dust due to Petal’s exuberance.
‘I want her to be at home,’ his daughter continued, trying out her extra-whiny voice.
‘Well, Mummy’s at college at the moment, sweet pea. She’s learning how to be a famous artist.’
Judging by the scowl on Petal’s face, it seemed that she wasn’t overly impressed by this state of affairs. Though, if he was honest, three weeks into Nell’s course and he was beginning to feel exactly the same as his daughter.
‘Does she still love us?’
‘Of course she does. And we’re baking these cakes to show how much we love her too.’
Petal took a moment to digest that and dipped her finger in the bowl of icing sugar to aid concentration.
‘We don’t put our fingers in the bowls, Petal.’
‘We do, Daddy,’ she corrected. ‘Yes, we do.’ To prove it she scooped up another blob of icing and ate it with relish.
Ah, well. Kitchen hygiene was overrated anyway. A certain amount of germs were good for you. He was sure he’d seen Nigella doing the same thing on her TV show. That was probably where Petal was picking up her bad habits from.
In his dark moments though, he did wonder where Nell’s sudden desire to change their lives had come from. Wasn’t Nell happy with him any more? The thing that he loved the most about her was that she never complained, never whined, she just always got on with whatever life threw at her. Had he misread her all these years and instead of being content, she’d been simmering away with unspoken dissatisfaction? They might not have money to burn, but they had a roof over their heads and food on the table – even though it was from the more bottom-end supermarket chains. Was that really a problem? Maybe that just wasn’t enough for the modern woman.
He’d seen what ambition had done to his father. He’d been a builder out in all weathers, all hours of the day. When he did get home, he’d shut himself away in the office and do paperwork until the small hours. As a child, Olly had rarely seen him. When he did, he never smiled and was always stressed. His bark wasn’t always worse than his bite and sometimes he’d have to move quickly to avoid a back-hander. Olly realised now that it was just due to the pressure he was constantly under, but he didn’t ever want to be a dad like that to his child. Throughout his childhood, they’d lived in a decent sized house and his mum and dad both drove top-of-the-range Mercs. His dad had an ulcer by the time he was thirty. He’d died at the age of forty-six. Keeled over with a heart attack while he was mixing concrete.
Looking back, had his dad’s desire to make money at all costs been the right thing to do? Wouldn’t it have been better for him to have eased back, had a little less money, but enjoyed life and stayed with them for longer? His widowed mother had sold the big house within months and now lived in Spain and he hardly ever saw her. Olly didn’t want that kind of future for himself or his family.
‘What colour shall we make the icing?’ he asked Petal.
‘BLACK!’
‘I have pink, yellow or blue.’ Petal was clearly not bowled over by the feeble selection on offer.
‘Blue,’ she ventured, somewhat reluctantly. ‘Let’s do blue.’
‘We also have sprinkles to put on top.’
‘Yay!’ she shouted. ‘Sprinkles! Sprinkles! Sprinkles!’
Well, that had cheered her up considerably. If only grownup ladies were so easily pleased.
When I get home, Olly and Petal are both lying flat out on the sofa in the living room, sparko.
I tiptoe towards them, kneel down beside Olly and kiss him on the nose. It twitches in his sleep. ‘Hey there, sleepyhead.’ I stroke his arm gently and he rouses.
‘What’s the time?’
‘Time you were at work and time this little one was in bed.’
Olly pushes himself up. He looks completely shattered. I think he would have been there for the whole night if I hadn’t woken him up. I’m not the only one burning the candles at both ends.
‘We both must have dropped off,’ he says with a shake of his head and a stretch. ‘The last thing I remember is watching
In the Night Garden
.’
Petal might be too old for it now, but it’s still her favourite programme. Frankly, if they ever needed a stand-in for Igglepiggle or Upsy Bleeding Daisy, then I’m your man. I could recite every word off by heart.
‘I’ll take her upstairs,’ I say.
We have made a rod for our own backs in that Petal always sleeps with me when Olly is working nights and that means, of course, that she won’t settle in her own bed when he’s not. I think she’ll still be sleeping between us when she’s twenty-five. I just hope she doesn’t bring home too many boyfriends.
‘I’ll do it.’ Olly yawns again.
He scoops our daughter into his arms. At least Petal is already in her pyjamas.
‘Stick the kettle on, love.’ Another yawn.
‘Coffee?’
‘Yeah. Nice and strong. Black.’ He throws his head back and groans. ‘Need something to keep me awake all night.’
I go through to the kitchen and make coffee. I’m going to need one myself if I’m going to have any hope of doing my work for tomorrow, rather than give in to the overwhelming urge to go and slip into bed next to my child. I feel as if I haven’t seen her properly for weeks and I’m missing my Petal fix. But there’s a dozen different things I need to get on top of, so I put two good spoonfuls of full-hit, instant coffee in the cups and hang the expense. The work to be handed in is stacking up and I feel as if I’m slipping behind. I can appreciate that there’s a lot to be crammed into this short year, but I wish we’d started at a slightly more sedate speed so that I could ease myself into it. I wonder, does the pace let up at all as we get into the course or is it going to be flat out all the way?
