6
6
I used to think that Lionel Richie must have written ‘Easy’ before he had kids – Sunday mornings were far from relaxing for a long time! – but now Rose and Dylan were at secondary school they didn’t get up until mid-morning and even made their own breakfast, allowing Emma and me to have a lie-in most Sundays.
This morning, though, two days after the Pulp gig, we were woken by a commotion coming from across the street. Dogs barking and a woman yelling. Screeching, really. Panicking. She was shouting a name: Tommy. The man at number 36. The father of the boys who had harassed Rose on the last day of school.
‘What’s going on?’ Emma asked, her eyes still closed.
I got up and went to the window, standing there in my boxer shorts, pulling aside the curtains just in time to see Tommy come running out of his house. He was dressed only in his underwear too, and I got a full view of his impressive pecs and the tattoos that covered half his torso. He was twice as broad as me, clearly very strong and unexpectedly fast.
‘It’s Albie,’ his wife screamed, standing there on the lawn with her hands in her hair. What was her name? Nicola, that was it. The younger boy, Eric, was there as well, hopping from foot to foot, agitated and in tears. ‘On the footpath.’
Tommy ran back into the house at the same time that Emma came to join me beside the window, smelling of sleep and looking so beautiful in her little pyjama set that it caused a stab of pain in my stomach. I summarised for her what I’d seen so far, then Tommy came running out having hurriedly pulled on some clothes. He legged it up the road towards the path that led to the fields, Eric following him.
Emma put on a pair of joggers and a T-shirt. ‘I’m going to go and see if we can help.’
‘Are you sure you want to get involved?’
‘We’re their neighbours, Ethan. That’s what good neighbours do.’
I almost said, You know all about being a good neighbour . But I swallowed the words down and said, ‘Yes. Of course.’
I put some clothes on too and went downstairs. As I stepped into our front garden, Fiona came out of her house. She was wearing sports gear and her hair looked damp at the roots, like she’d just got back from a run. No make-up. The thought went through my head that she didn’t need it. Meanwhile, Emma had crossed the road and was standing at the edge of number 36’s property, waiting for Nicola to get off the phone.
‘Any idea what’s happening?’ Fiona asked me.
‘Something to do with Albie.’
Fiona took a sip from the water bottle she was holding, then wiped her lips. ‘That’s the older one, right? This is why I’m glad I never had kids. The fear that something awful might happen to them. That’s a thing, right?’
‘Yeah. It’s a thing all right. Thank you for watching mine the other night.’ We hadn’t chatted with Fiona when we’d got back from the gig because she’d told us she was tired and wanted to get straight to bed. That had been fine by me.
‘It was my pleasure. I didn’t see much of Dylan.’ She paused for a micro-second, as if waiting for me to comment. When I didn’t she went straight on. ‘Rose is a delight. Such a sweet girl.’
‘She is.’
‘How were the band?’
‘They were amazing. Honestly, it was such a great night.’ I swallowed. ‘Best I’ve had in ages.’
She studied me like she could tell something was awry. ‘I’m glad to hear it. It must be hard, trying to find time for your marriage when you have children and demanding jobs.’
I had a moment of paranoia. Our bedroom wall adjoined her house. Had she been listening to us? No, surely she wouldn’t be able to hear our hushed conversations through the walls. Or note the lack of any other noises coming from our bedroom.
‘Must be hard to find time for yourself too,’ she said. ‘To be a man, and not just a dad and husband.’
Taken aback, I said, ‘I like being a dad and husband.’
‘Oh, I’m sure. But sometimes you have to think about yourself, don’t you? As an individual.’ As she said this, her eyes flicked up and down my body, sizing me up. I could hardly believe it. No woman had looked at me like that in years.
Flustered, and temporarily forgetting what was going on over the road, I lost the ability to speak.
‘If you ever want me to babysit again, just ask. Anytime. I honestly really enjoyed doing it. Not that they’re babies.’
I recovered the power of speech. ‘As Rose keeps reminding me.’
‘Another difficult thing for a dad, I bet. Seeing his little girl grow up.’
‘Yeah. I always thought I’d be cool about it. When they were little, keeping us up all night, drawing on the walls, having tantrums, I used to long for the days when they were older. It’s hard – though, actually, it’s harder for Emma than it is for me.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yeah, there’s ... tension. Rose thinks Emma babies her, doesn’t give her the freedom she craves. And Emma is a little bit ...’
Fiona waited, and I started to feel like I was being disloyal. I didn’t want to say any more.
But Fiona didn’t let it go. ‘Overprotective? Tries to keep her wrapped up in cotton wool?’
‘Something like that.’
It wasn’t only that. Rose constantly complained that Emma bossed her around too much, and I had to confess I had allowed Emma to take on that ‘bad cop’ role. She was the one who told Rose to tidy her bedroom, brush her hair, do her homework. I had the easier role: the fun parent. The one who played video games with them and took them to gigs and bought unhealthy takeaways.
‘Dylan seems easy enough.’
‘Yeah, he is. Girls are harder, though, right? That’s what everyone says. Or is it sexist to say that?’
She smiled. ‘Girls are definitely more of a challenge, especially to their mothers. That’s what mine said, anyway.’
While we were having this conversation, Emma had been talking to Nicola. Now she made her way back over the street, frowning. She nodded at Fiona but addressed me.
‘She’s in a terrible state.’
‘What happened?’
‘The boys were out on their bike this morning, riding up and down the footpath.’ She meant the path that ran alongside the fields. ‘According to Eric, when Albie was taking his turn, the front tyre burst and he was thrown off the bike into a tree. Hit his head pretty hard.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Fiona.
‘Eric said he wasn’t talking or responding.’
I could picture it. Hear the crack. ‘God, how awful.’
‘Terrible,’ said Fiona.
We heard movement and turned to see Tommy approaching with Albie in his arms. Tommy was attempting to jog but the boy was a dead weight. Seeing them, Nicola sprinted towards them, making a distressed keening noise, arms outstretched. Eric was there too, loping along behind his dad, looking pale and sick.
At the same moment we heard an ambulance, just before it came around the corner, blue lights flashing. Albie’s mum waved at it and it sped across to where they stood, two paramedics emerging, a man and a woman. Almost everyone in the neighbourhood was out on their front lawns, watching. The paramedics helped Tommy get Albie into the back of the ambulance, then Tommy came back out and Nicola took his place. Tommy and Eric stood outside the vehicle, the big man rubbing the back of his neck with one of his huge hands, his son small and scared beside him.
A minute later, the ambulance doors closed and it sped away, leaving father and son behind. Eric began to cry and Tommy put an arm around his son’s shoulders before leading him to their car. He almost stalled it in his haste to pursue the ambulance, black smoke emerging from the exhaust pipe as they turned off the estate.
Emma looked sick. ‘God, I hope he’s okay. He wasn’t moving, was he? And did you see the blood?’
‘Poor kid,’ Fiona said, before abruptly announcing, ‘But I can’t stand around gossiping all day.’
She went into her house, and as we turned to do the same I sensed movement above me. I looked up to see Rose at her bedroom window. She was gazing across the street towards Albie and Eric’s house.
There was a smile on her lips. Faint, barely visible, as enigmatic as the Mona Lisa’s, but absolutely there – until she saw me looking up at her and quickly rearranged her face, frowning with worry.
A smile? I made myself believe I had imagined it.
Back inside, I made coffee and thought about what to have for breakfast. Emma came into the kitchen, clearly disturbed by what had happened. ‘I’m going to have a bath,’ she said.
‘You don’t want a coffee?’
‘I’ll have one afterwards.’
As she passed me to leave the kitchen I said, ‘Do you want a hug?’ – spreading my arms, hoping she would step into my embrace, but she evaded me.
‘I stink.’
‘No you don’t. Besides, I like it when you’re a bit smelly.’
She wrinkled her nose. ‘Don’t be gross. And if you really think I’m going to be in the mood now, after what we just witnessed ...’
‘What? I was just trying to give you a hug. To comfort you.’
‘Okay. Whatever. If that’s true, I’m sorry.’
It was true. I really had been offering her comfort, nothing more, but I could tell she didn’t believe me. More miscommunication, more tension caused by sex. It was the elephant in our bedroom, and had been since The Incident.
‘Go and have your bath,’ I said.
I finished making coffee, then sat at the kitchen table, not hungry enough to want breakfast, thinking about how I’d lied to Fiona about my and Emma’s night out. It hadn’t gone how I’d hoped, and I knew it was because I’d had this perfect image of what the evening would be like – relaxed and fun and like the old days – and when it wasn’t I had driven Emma crazy by repeatedly asking her if she was all right, which had eventually led her to snap at me, telling me to chill out or she’d go home.
We had stood and watched the band with this terrible atmosphere between us, the volume making it impossible to talk until, six or seven songs in, Emma told me she was going to the loo and didn’t come back. I went looking for her and eventually found her waiting outside the venue, saying it was too loud and crowded and someone had spilled beer on her. I accused her of deliberately spoiling our night out and the young bouncers watched us with smirks, this middle-aged couple bickering as the middle-aged band played inside. Finally, I persuaded her to come into the nearest pub so we could talk.
‘What do you want to do?’ I asked.
‘Go home. Go to bed.’
‘I mean about us. Do you want a divorce?’ I had to speak quietly so the couple at the table next to ours couldn’t hear. Meanwhile, I was almost shaking with stress.
‘Please. Not this again. I can’t have this conversation again tonight.’
‘But . . .’
‘I don’t want a divorce, Ethan. I’m just exhausted and on my period and not in the mood to see a band, and I’m sorry I’ve ruined our night out, okay? I’m really sorry.’
When we arrived home, thank God, Fiona didn’t want to hang around to chat. Emma went straight upstairs to check on the kids. Rose was asleep but Dylan was still awake, playing games with his friends, headphones on. We pretended to him that the gig had been amazing and then Emma went to bed.
Earlier, before the argument, I had hoped the evening might end with sex, which would have been the first time in months, but I knew there was no hope of that happening now. I sat downstairs and watched something on Netflix, Lola snoozing beside me on the sofa, until I knew Emma would be asleep, then went up.
Sitting at the kitchen table now, I finished my coffee. Told myself to be more positive, to stop being so bloody self-pitying. At least our children were healthy and happy. Unlike that poor boy across the road.
I got up and looked across the street at their empty house. It was a sunny morning, vapour trails looking pretty against a blue sky. From upstairs I could hear footsteps, Rose walking around her room. I knew I ought to have a word with her when she came down. That smile. Yes, those boys were horrible to you , I would say. But one should never take pleasure in others’ misfortune.
I was saved from having to make a decision by the dog. Lola came into the room, wagging her tail expectantly.
‘Is it that time, eh?’
She trotted over and sat at my feet, then gave me her paw.
‘Come on then.’
I put her lead on and we went up the footpath towards the fields. It always tickled me how Lola could do the same walk daily but seem just as excited every time. The footpath was smooth, tarmacked at the same time they built the estate. In autumn it would be crunchy or soggy with leaves, but now it was relatively clear, slightly warm from the sun that made its way through the branches.
Halfway up the path, I stopped. The boys’ dirt bike was still here, lying on its side between two trees, the front tyre visibly flat. I crouched for a closer look and saw the rubber was shredded, like it had gone over something viciously sharp. I squinted at the path, looking for glass or a nail, but couldn’t see anything. Could it have just burst on its own? Maybe, I supposed, though I couldn’t imagine why it would. Being careful, in case there was glass hidden on the path, I steered Lola around the tree closest to the bike’s front wheel. There was a dark mark on the trunk and I realised, with a lurch in my gut, that it was blood.
I shivered in the sunshine, glad it hadn’t been one of my children. But also thinking again about how Rose had smiled, before my thoughts lurched on to the memory of what Fiona had said about me being not just a dad and husband. The way she’d looked me up and down.
Jesus, what a morning.
‘Let’s go, Lola,’ I said. Dogs were easy, uncomplicated. We walked on.