12. The Party
THE PARTY
Saturday morning. Neil woke at six and cleaned the flat like he was preparing for a military inspection.
The living room was already clean, it was always clean, but he cleaned it again.
Hoovered the carpet in straight lines. Wiped the surfaces.
Rearranged the cushions. Moved them back.
The kitchen: counters scrubbed, the hob degreased, the fridge contents reorganised by food group.
He checked the toilet, bleach, fresh towel, new soap.
He checked the garden, the patch of grass behind the flat, barely large enough for a dozen children, which would have to do because Gemma had vetoed the church hall on grounds of cost and Neil had vetoed the park on grounds of January.
The party was here. In the flat. Twelve six-year-olds in four rooms. Gemma handled the logistics like a NATO peacekeeping operation.
Freddie woke at seven. Exploded out of bed like a mortar round.
‘IT'S MY BIRTHDAY IT'S MY BIRTHDAY IT'S MY BIRTHDAY.’
‘Happy birthday, mate.’
‘I'M SIX. That's a WHOLE HAND plus a BIT.’
‘Technically it's a hand and a thumb.’
‘Thumbs count, Dad.’
‘Thumbs absolutely count.’
By ten, the flat was transformed. Balloons taped to every surface, Spider-Man red, blue, black.
Streamers across the kitchen doorway that would catch an adult in the face at least four times.
Pass the parcel wrapped in eleven layers, a mini chocolate bar between each.
Owen's speaker in the corner, playlist loaded.
The garden cleared for running, the only structure a trestle table with paper plates and the promise of cake.
Gemma arrived at eleven with Owen, two trays of sandwiches, and the cake, Spider-Man, three tiers, exactly as specified. She set it on the kitchen counter and surveyed the flat. She'd lived here. She knew its architecture.
‘You've cleaned.’
‘I always clean.’
‘You've cleaned differently. You've cleaned with intent.’ She looked at him. ‘Is Rory coming?’
‘Yes.’
‘As...’
‘As Mr Cavanaugh. Freddie's art teacher. A colleague.’
‘And your parents?’
‘Arriving at two. Leaving at three. My mother has book club.’
‘Your mother's book club has saved more family gatherings than penicillin.’ She straightened the cake. ‘Neil. It's going to be fine.’
‘I know.’
‘Your eye's twitching.’
‘My eye is not twitching.’
‘Both eyes are twitching. You look like a man trying to blink in Morse code.’ She put her hand on his arm. ‘He's coming to a children's party. He'll eat cake. He'll be brilliant with the kids. Your parents will see a teacher. That's all.’
‘That's all.’
‘That's all.’
The children arrived in waves. Twelve of them.
Loud, sugar-anticipating, vibrating with an energy that rattled the walls.
Parents delivered them at the door with the expressions of people releasing hostages, relief, guilt, and the immediate calculation of how many hours of freedom they'd just purchased.
The garden was chaos within minutes. Twelve children running in a space designed for two, the screaming constant, joyful, the primal noise of children in packs.
Musical statues in the living room, Owen on the speaker, Gemma doing face painting at the kitchen table, three cats, two tigers, and a Spider-Man down, now attempting a dinosaur with limited green paint and unlimited client demands.
Neil counted heads every four minutes because counting was what he did.
Miss Greaves arrived with a card signed by the entire Year 1 class.
Martin Clarke brought his two kids, who immediately knocked over the pass the parcel, scattering eleven layers across the carpet.
Sue Dhillon came without children but with a bottle of prosecco and an expression that suggested she intended to enjoy herself.
At half past one, the doorbell rang.
Neil opened it.
Rory stood on the step. Clean shirt, dark blue, the good one, sleeves rolled to the elbows. Jeans without paint. Hair tied back. The lip ring catching afternoon light. Carrying a flat package wrapped in brown paper.
He looked good.
‘Mr Cavanaugh.’ Neil's voice. The surname.
‘Mr Ashworth.’ Rory's mouth twitched. The private joke, reactivated. He held up the package. ‘Delivery for the birthday boy.’
From inside the flat, at volume: ‘IS THAT MR CAVANAUGH?’
Freddie materialised in the hallway like a summons. He was wearing a Spider-Man T-shirt, cake crumbs on his chin, and a paper crown that had been sellotaped together twice. He took one look at Rory, abandoned all restraint, and launched himself.
Rory caught him. Picked him up with one arm, a movement so natural it didn't look practised. Freddie wrapped both arms around his neck.
‘You came to my PARTY.’
‘Course I did, mate. Happy birthday.’
‘I'm SIX.’
‘I know. Ancient. Practically retired.’
‘What's that?’ Eyes on the package.
‘Open it and find out.’
Neil stepped aside. Rory entered. His eyes swept the flat, the painter's scan. His painting on the wall, the briefest pause. The bookshelf. The fridge with the drawings. The clean surfaces.
Freddie tore the paper. The Spider-Man painting emerged. A3, mounted on thick card. Spider-Man mid-swing above a city skyline, the figure rendered in full technique, the musculature real, the web detailed, the city below in Rory's characteristic bruised palette but warmer, brighter.
Freddie went still.
‘That's proper,’ he whispered.
‘Did you paint this? With paint? Like the real paintings?’
‘Same paint. Same brushes. Same technique. You deserved the real thing.’
Freddie looked up at Neil. The chin trembling. The eyes bright.
‘Dad. Look.’
‘I see it, Fred.’
‘It's art.’
‘It is.’
‘It's art of Spider-Man. That's the best kind of art.’
Gemma appeared from the kitchen. Saw the painting. Looked at Rory. Looked at Neil.
‘Rory,’ she said. Bright. Direct. Extending her hand. ‘I'm Gemma. I've heard a lot.’
‘Likewise.’ Rory shook her hand. No stiffness. No performance.
‘The coffee's terrible,’ Gemma said. ‘Fair warning. But the cake's good.’
‘I'll survive.’ He grinned at her.
‘Oh, I like him,’ Gemma said to Neil.
‘Everyone likes him,’ Neil said. ‘It's insufferable.’
The party continued. Rory was, as predicted, brilliant with the children.
He set up an art station on the trestle table in the garden, paper, poster paint, brushes he'd brought from school.
Within twenty minutes, twelve children were painting monsters and trees and one ambitious rendering of a spaceship that required three colours and Rory's personal supervision.
He crouched, adjusted grips, asked questions. ‘What colour is the sky in your picture?’ ‘Any colour I want.’ ‘That's the right answer.’
A boy named Oliver painted a dinosaur eating a car. Rory studied it with real seriousness. ‘The perspective's good. The dinosaur's dominant. The car's in trouble.’
‘The car's already dead. The dinosaur ate the engine.’
‘Then the dinosaur has indigestion. Engines are hard to digest.’
‘Dinosaurs can digest ANYTHING.’
‘Anything but catalytic converters. Trust me.’
Alyssa, the girl who'd declared purple was both warm and cool, was working on a portrait of her cat. The cat had seven legs. Rory asked why. ‘Because she moves so fast it looks like she has more legs than she does. I'm painting what it feels like, not what it looks like.’
Rory stopped. Looked at the painting. Looked at Alyssa. ‘That,’ he said, ‘is exactly how it works.’
Neil watched from the back door. The art station in front of him, Rory at the centre, sleeves pushed back, paint already on his forearms, talking to children with the same focused attention he brought to his own canvases.
Freddie painted beside him. Without looking sideways. The bold, unselfconscious strokes Rory had identified in September. Green. Always green.
Sue Dhillon appeared at Neil's shoulder. Glass of prosecco. Hobnob.
‘He's good with them,’ she said. Casual.
‘He's the art teacher. It's his job.’
‘I've seen art teachers who are their job. That's not his job. That's his vocation.’ She bit the hobnob. ‘You two work well together.’
‘We work on the mural.’
‘I know what you work on.’ She looked at him. The look lasted one second longer than professional. Then: ‘You seem happy, Neil. Whatever's causing it, don't mess it up.’
He already had.
In the garden, Malcolm had found a purpose. He was trimming Neil's hedge, which had not requested trimming, with shears he'd brought from home.
‘Your hedge is disgraceful,’ Malcolm said.
‘I'll get to it, Dad.’
‘I'm getting to it now. A man's hedge is his responsibility.’
‘It's a privet, Dad, not a moral statement.’
‘Everything's a moral statement. Hedges included.’
Malcolm worked the shears. Snip. Snip. Then, not looking up: ‘Your mother’s quieter than usual today. You know what that means.’
‘What does it mean, Dad?’
‘It means she’s thinking. Stay out of the road until she stops.’ The blades opened and closed. The privet fell in neat arcs.
Neil left his father to the hedge.
Malcolm and Diane had arrived at two. Diane in a wool coat, lipstick fresh.
Malcolm in the blazer. He'd carried a wrapped present, rectangular, sharp-cornered, and the garden shears, set by the back door without explanation.
Freddie received the present with appropriate enthusiasm.
A book: The World of Engineering for Young Minds.
Malcolm's choice. Freddie said ‘Thank you, Grandad’ with diplomatic grace. Then Malcolm had found the hedge.
Neil found Diane in the kitchen.
She was standing by the counter, studying it. Neil's moka pot. Bought three weeks ago because the flat's instant coffee had become unbearable after months of drinking properly at Rory's kitchen table. New. Obvious.
‘This is new,’ she said.
‘I bought it.’
‘You don't drink espresso.’
‘I do now.’
‘Since when?’
‘Since the autumn.’
She turned the observation over. ‘People don't change their coffee overnight. Something prompted it.’
‘Better taste prompted it.’