Take Mum Out (20 page)

‘God, no, not at all.’

The background noise has reached such a level that it’s difficult to hear her. ‘Are you okay? Sounds a bit hectic …’

‘Hectic?’ she says witheringly. ‘It’s full-on war here. Worst thing is, Dan finally agreed to take a couple of days holiday so you’d think it should be a
bit
easier …’ Her voice wobbles.

‘Why isn’t it?’ I ask.

‘Because he’s not actually
here
. He’s spending the whole time in his sodding shed, doing God knows what, and when he’s in the house he’s jabbing away at his phone like a teenager …’ She blasts this out, which has the effect of silencing her children immediately.
Why are you doing this?
I want to ask her.
School starts again the week after next. Can’t Dan see what a fine invention it really is?

‘Couldn’t he take the kids out for a few hours?’ I suggest, aware of the unspoken rule that, no matter how much a friend berates her husband, you can’t say what you really think because – hopefully – it’ll sort itself out.

‘You’re right,’ Kirsty says briskly. ‘I just need to get Dan more involved. Anyway – you just have a great time and remember, I want to hear every detail.’

As we finish the call, I try to shake off the twinge of annoyance I have for Dan. The truth is, while I know Kirsty would hate me to feel sorry for her, I can’t help it. I imagine she weeps with frustration every time she walks past the lovely primary school at the end of the road and sees all those children playing happily at break time. In some ways, I had it easier with Tom; he never expressed any preference as to how the boys spent their time, so there was no wrangling, no, ‘
This
is how it must be.’

‘I can’t believe it,’ Viv shrieks when I call her. ‘You never do things like this.’

‘You mean I’m never spontaneous?’ I say, eyeing the contents of my open suitcase.

A small pause. ‘Not especially, no. That’s not a criticism,’ she adds quickly. ‘I’m just amazed you agreed. God, Alice. You’re off to
Paris
…’

‘Well, I just thought, why not? I’ve only been once, with Tom, and it was lovely but he did grumble about the admission fees—’

‘Stop pretending you’re going on some cultural trip,’ she sniggers. ‘You’re making out it’ll be all about the Louvre and the Pompidou Centre when, let’s face it, you’re actually going to be in bed the whole time with – what’s his name again?’

‘Charlie.’

‘What about Giles?’ she adds, lowering her voice to a murmur, reminding me that she’s at work. ‘Hasn’t he called you?’

‘Haven’t heard a thing,’ I tell her. ‘Anyway, I’d better finish packing …’

‘Oh, good luck. I’m
so
envious.’ Which, coming from Viv, is quite something.

In fact, getting ready for the trip is so easy, it’s almost eerie. When Tom was still here, preparing for a family jaunt was such a mammoth task, it would literally take days. ‘I don’t know why you make such a fuss about packing,’ Tom would retort, having dropped his pants, swimming trunks and a razor into a bag the size of a pencil case (it was up to me to remember his T-shirts, shorts, etc. – i.e. proper clothing, not to mention also packing for the kids). This time, I’ve flung just a couple of outfits into my case, plus what Mum regards as my excessive array of skincare products (i.e. facial wash, serum). Is it really possible to travel so lightly? Doubt starts to creep in. Will a stripy Breton top look silly in Paris, as if I’m trying too hard to look Parisian? No, Breton tops are from Brittany, obviously … Deciding I need to reassess it later, I settle down with a coffee in the kitchen and call Logan’s mobile. There’s much jollity and laughter in the background. I can hear Jessica chattering excitedly, and Fergus’s loud, barky laugh.

‘Hi, darling,’ I say.

‘Hi, Mum.’ He sounds perky, which I take as a good sign.

‘Just wondered how things are going.’

‘Yeah, good. Really good.’

I remove the Breton top from my case and add the embroidered one which I can’t stop liking, despite Mum’s sudden concern over its production.

‘What have you been up to, love?’

‘Just stuff, y’know …’ When will it stop being so difficult to communicate with Logan? When will he start saying, ‘Are there any light jobs you need doing around the flat, Mother?’

‘So … Dad mentioned the weather’s been great.’

‘Yeah …’

‘I hope you’ve been wearing sunscreen …’

‘
Mum
,’ he says, exasperated.

More silence. ‘Could I have a quick word with Fergus, please?’

‘Yeah, here he is.’

At least his brother is more talkative. ‘Are you missing us, Mum?’ he wants to know.

‘’Course I am, love. I’m missing you so much it hurts.’

He sniggers. ‘What have you been doing?’

Nothing much. Baking and dating, baking and dating
… ‘Just baking, really. Grandma was here for a couple of days for her birthday. Oh, and I took that carrier bag of toys in your room to the charity shop.’

‘Huh?’

‘You know – your old teddies and Rex and all that.’ There’s an awkward pause. Even Jessica has stopped chattering away in the background.

‘Rex?’ Fergus repeats. ‘You took
Rex
to the charity shop?’

‘Well, yes, but only because you left him all packed up and ready to go in that big plastic bag …’ A trace of defensiveness has crept into my voice.

‘You mean that bag in my room?’

‘Yes … that
was
okay, wasn’t it?’

‘Mum,’ he says slowly, ‘I was gonna have another look through them when I got back. They weren’t ready to go. They were
still being sorted
…’ There’s a distinct wobble in his voice, not unlike Kirsty’s a few moments ago.

‘Did you want to keep Rex?’ I ask fearfully.

‘Yeah, I did!’

‘What is it?’ Logan mutters in the background. ‘What’s she done with your stuff?’

‘Shut up,’ Fergus snaps at him.

‘Has she given your stuff away? She did that with me once! Remember that Lego pirate ship—’

‘He said that pirate ship could go to the school bring-and-buy,’ I protest, to no avail: my sons are now discussing my habit of giving away their beloved possessions to any old passing kid in the street.

‘What about your train set?’ Logan reminds him.

‘Yeah! I
loved
that train.’ Fergus appears to have forgotten that I’m even on the phone.

‘But it was broken,’ I insist. ‘It didn’t even go, and half its track was missing …’ I’m still gripping the phone as they detail my crimes.

‘Remember when she gave away our sea monkeys?’ Fergus bleats.

Sea monkeys? They were dead, for crying out loud, because Logan had knocked over the tank and they fell on the carpet …

‘Fergus,’ I snap. ‘Please stop this …’ Christ, I’d actually called to tell them about my Paris trip. It would be better, I figured, than sneaking off and freaking out if they happened to glimpse a Ladurée carrier bag, or the packet of French cigarettes which I am now looking forward to stuffing into my mouth, all at once. A soft packet of twenty,
sans filtre.
YUM.

‘Fergus!’ I repeat, more loudly this time.

‘Yeah?’

‘Listen to me, please. Just tell me why, when you haven’t played with or even looked at Rex for about twenty-five years—’

‘I wasn’t born then,’ he says coldly. ‘I wasn’t even a foetus.’

‘Yes, I know, love. I was exaggerating—’

‘The thing is,’ he cuts in, sounding desperately upset now, ‘I’ve been drawing a lot in the evenings, making comics for Jessica …’

‘That’s lovely of you,’ I murmur.

‘… Starring
Rex
,’ he shouts, ‘and she really liked ’em, and I’ve promised she can have Rex – real Rex, I mean – when we get back.’

Silence hangs in the air, tense and sweat-making. That’s the thing with charity shops, I realise now: you pick something up – a smelly old girdle, or a scuffed shoe – and you wrinkle your nose at it before dumping it back on the shelf, without realising it was someone’s most precious thing.

‘Fergus, I’m sorry,’ I mutter.

‘Mum, I
really
need him back. I promised her. She talks about him all the time.’

I swallow hard. ‘I
did
get permission from Logan to give his pirate ship to school …’

‘Yeah,’ he whispers, ‘he’s just being an arse.’

I blow out a big gust of air. ‘Well, maybe I could run round to the charity shop right now and see if they still have him.’

‘Would you?’ A trace of hope has crept into his voice.

‘Yes, of course I will.’ We finish the call, and I take a sip of my coffee which is now stone cold. When I glimpse myself in the hall mirror, I am pale with pinkish eyes, and prominent horizontal lines are etched across my clammy forehead. I don’t have the aura of someone who’s on the verge of jumping into bed with a very sexy man in Paris. I look as if I’ve just had a marital row. Which might explain why, as I scamper along to the end of our road, that tall, dark-eyed deli man – pusher of extortionate cheese – gives me a concerned frown as he finishes chalking the sign outside his shop.

‘You okay?’ he asks when I’m nearly level with him.

‘Yes thanks.’ I have slowed down to a more manageable trot.

‘Are you sure?’ I see him glancing behind me as if expecting to see a furious husband with a meat tenderiser.

‘I’m fine, thanks, just in a hurry,’ I add, forcing a smile as I speed-walk by. My arrival at the charity shop is announced by a jingling of Tibetan bells above the door. I hone in on the toy section, praying for a glimpse of a sullied white dog with the texture of hosiery among the tired Barbies. It occurs to me, as I rake through a wire basket of beanie toys, that most women wouldn’t be doing this the day before a trip with a prospective new lover. They would be choosing new lingerie, enjoying a manicure, or even having a Brazilian. They would not be examining a sorry-looking polar bear and wondering if it might pass as a dog.

‘Excuse me,’ I say, now at the till, ‘I brought in a bag of soft toys last week and the lady put them in the back room. I wondered if it might still be there?’

The short, stocky, blonde woman purses her scarlet lips, as if I might be planning to purloin something that was never mine in the first place.

‘I’ll have a look,’ she says. ‘Sorry, nothing there,’ she announces, reappearing a moment later.

I frown. ‘Are you sure? It’s a big clear plastic bag of soft toys—’

‘Did they have Kitemarks?’

Does she think I spend my time forensically examining teddies? ‘Er … I have no idea.’

She shrugs. ‘If they didn’t, then we can’t sell them. Against regulations. Sorry.’

‘No, but you see, the lady who was here last week took them, she
accepted
them …’

She throws me a baffled glance and turns to serve the man beside me. I slope out of the shop, picturing Fergus and Jessica’s doleful expressions when it’s announced that my mission failed. What happens to unwanted soft toys anyway? Are they slung into some gigantic wheelie bin round the back of the shop? Or sent to a factory to be turned into the filling for cheap sofas? As I approach the deli, the French guy is still out there, drawing a fancy border around the edge of his sign.

‘Did you make it?’ he asks, looking up.

‘Sorry?’

‘You were in a hurry—’

‘Oh,’ I say distractedly. ‘Um … not really. I actually went back to the charity shop to try and rescue one of my son’s toys.’ I shrug. ‘But they didn’t have it.’

‘Ah,’ he says, straightening up, ‘the one that’s suddenly a favourite again.’

I smile, impressed that he grasps the urgency of the situation. ‘Yes, sort of.’

‘Could you buy a replacement? There’s that new place along there …’ He indicates the side street where a toyshop has opened. Being past that stage with the boys, I have barely registered its existence.

‘Good idea, but I think it has to be the actual one. A substitute wouldn’t be the same.’

‘Ah, shame.’ I thank him and decide to try the toyshop anyway. But Noah’s is all handcrafted wooden arks and reproduction Victorian theatres; the only nod to a soft toy is a large brown monkey costing fifty quid. It’s becoming harder to buy ordinary things around here. Where’s the plain old dyed Cheddar, and the cheap synthetic cuddly toy when you need it? I’m starting to think that maybe the boys and I should trade down to a less chi-chi neighbourhood. Maybe then we’d be able to afford the East Wing that Logan so desires.

Back home, I toy with the idea of calling Logan and/or Fergus again, but at the risk of further accusations being flung at me, I decide to text instead. Cowardly, I know. Shamefully, I decide not to mention Paris.

Just been asked on a jaunt, last minute thing, back home Thursday phone me any time xxx.

I perch on the edge of my bed, next to my open suitcase, and wait for a response. There is none.

I think my friends would say I try to focus on the positive. For instance, when I recall our last visit to Mum’s, it’s not the salmonella-burgers that instantly spring to mind, but being with my boys in the steamy warmth of the chip shop. And when I sneak another look at Tom flaunting his brassicas in that darned magazine, I just think, thank Christ Patsy is in charge of him now, and that I can buy our vegetables from a shop.

And so, when I wake up not with a surge of anticipation but an attack of piles on Paris Day, I think: they’re actually not
too
bad. I mean, I’ve known worse. In the past, they’ve been so vicious I’ve literally had to hobble around the flat, wincing and clutching at my rear, while Tom spouted a seemingly endless supply of bottom-related funnies. And at least the beard rash has died down at last.

As with most low-level irritations, I employ my usual tactic of trying to ignore the issue. It’s something I’ve learnt to do during these past few years. When you’re a single parent of adolescents, you simply can’t create an enormous ding-dong over every little thing, or you’d spend your whole
life
raging and issuing threats. So I shower and dress, doing everything in a slightly stilted way, as if expecting a crucial part of my anatomy to snap.